


Some Flowers Bloom in the Dark

by RockingRobin_69



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Dom/sub Undertones, Good Harry Potter, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Mental Breakdown, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suspense, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 156,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockingRobin_69/pseuds/RockingRobin_69
Summary: Draco is very seriously entangled with someone he only refers to as Sir, orHein the privacy of his own mind. He's been entangled with Him - obsessively, impossibly - for four years now, almost as long as he'd been out of prison. So what if he wasn't exactly happy? He was used to his life by now. He knew what to expect, and even if it was truly terrible sometimes, at least he didn't have to think about Azkaban. He didn't need to be saved by some sloppy-haired git. He didn't need anything. Apparently, Potter didn't care.Why, why must he always ruin everything?*All non-con elements and Dom-Sub tones are not between Harry and Draco.*Rough references of abuse. Past and current non-con. Dark, dark, darkness. Then some light.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Other(s)
Comments: 194
Kudos: 193





	1. A Rose is But a Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters will be added weekly (or sooner, it would seem? Been going pretty well with the pace, even if I do say so myself).  
> It is a rather dark story, with a lot of angst and panic-attacks and residual pain and slightly experimental humor, so please consider before you read. Mind the tags for possible triggers.

Draco tore his gaze away from the woman and ducked his head low. Merlin, don’t look at me, he thought desperately. Don’t even look at me. From where she stood, and with all the flowers in between them, there was a good chance she would miss him. The shop was absolutely packed with bouquets in every color imaginable; white lilies and red-blood roses, yellow sunflowers and orange chrysanthemums, blue delphiniums and purple pansies. The latest were his favorites, for obvious reasons. At all times he had a tiny glass vase next to his till with only one. His Pansy. It was the one thing in the shop he cared about.

Well, right now, there were two: he had to remain unseen by the tall lady, no matter what. He knew all too well what would happen if she saw him. If she approached. Gods, if she spoke to him… Draco dashed to the back room, cursing himself for his stupidity. He should know better than this. Damn it, he’s been warned. _There will not be a next time_ , the growl said in his ear, and Draco was certain He’d meant it. There will not be a next time.

A clear voice spoke out, and Draco’s heart stopped. He did not even dare to breathe. Please, he begged whatever it was out there that could have possibly listened, please don’t let her come in here. Please just make her go away. Inside him he already felt the familiar sting around his gut. He couldn’t help it, though. He wanted her out of here, and he wanted it now. He wasn’t meant to. He wasn’t meant to want anything other than… Merlin’s pants. Draco exhaled a long sigh of relief when he heard the bells, signaling the door opening then closing. She left. He sank against the wall, rubbing his eyes furiously, for the first time in years not even registering the jingle of the metal. She left.

It took some shaky moments before he was able to push himself back up. Coming out to the store front again, he looked around for hints of her existence. A faint scent in the air, perhaps, or a hair caught on a flower? He could see nothing, sense nothing of her presence in this place. His heart ached like it was bashed by a hundred trolls. Gods, to think that she was here, just a minute ago, so impossibly real. To think that she actually walked on these tiles and breathed this air. Someone who knew him… For a moment he was in an utter frenzy, hyperventilating and flushed. It felt more serious than his last few panic attacks, and with very little belief in himself he tried to make it disappear. He cannot let himself get this caught up. He cannot let himself _feel_ this much, for He would surely sense it. There it was again, the little sting… a hot flash in his abdomen… Draco pulled himself into a tiny seat, placing his head between his knees and breathing in and out in a steady, low pace.

As if this day could still get any worse, the door opened and a snout-faced young man walked in. To call him _man_ was somewhat presumptuous; Draco wasn’t entirely certain it hadn’t been an ill-dressed pig standing on its hind legs. True that the he was more muscles than pure fat, still the resemblance was astounding.

“Got any petunias?” he asked, making awful work of the largest piece of chewing gum Draco’s ever had the displeasure of seeing. “It’s for my mum. Her name’s Petunia.”

“Right,” Draco said, only with great effort not in a snarl. He snatched a ready-made bouquet and nearly threw it at the young barn animal. “There you go. Some beautiful flowers she is sure to like.” He was slightly reluctant to take the notes from the chubby, sticky fingers held out towards him – but if the till will be short at the end of the day, he’d get an hour. Most likely even more than just that. Lately, the punishments were growing quite severe.

He huffed and looked around the now empty shop. Flowers of every possible color filled his view, and all the scents mixed in the air tickled his throat and made him cough. He had been working in a flower shop for nearly three years now, and was certain he’s become quite allergic. Not to mention he _detested_ flowers. Anything to do with them, really. The way they looked, all frail and delicate. The way they smelled, so sweet and intoxicating. How they needed constant attention, so much _love_ , or they just wilted into sad little lumps of saggy petals. Draco thought it was absolutely disgusting. And if it was by any chance because he felt himself like a flower sometimes – trapped in a vase for others to pluck at or admire, out of his control, always in desperate need – he tried not to dwell on it. He stayed in the shop because there was really no choice but to, and he left it every night shivering with hatred.

Of course, hatred was something Draco Malfoy was very familiar with. He was bred precisely for it, he often thought. Ever since he was nothing but a toddler, his own sense of self relied on hate to a certain extent. Yes, it relied also on traditions, on stiff and obscure rules, on pride and on grandeur, but there was always that stem of hate in it too. Hate for Muggles, Mudbloods, blood traitors. Hate for Dumbledore and the Ministry and Potter, when he was old enough for it. Basically, hate for anyone who was weak. Anyone who was human. Draco resented these lessons only when he was wise enough to understand them, which was only extremely recently. At twenty-four, he still wasn’t sure he understands them completely. Of course, He helped a lot with that. But the kind of hate He possessed was far too deep and too strong for Draco to comprehend, and he never even tried. There was no need to. There was only one thing He demanded of Draco, and it wasn’t his hate.

Draco had to forcibly rip himself out of his own thoughts. The man left without taking his change, so he shoved the two pound coin back in the till. This was no good, either. If he had _more_ money than he should by the end of the day, He would only get suspicious. Someone else had better come along, so he can slip them the extra. Someone come along now, he thought loudly, aiming his energy towards the street. Anyone.

No, not anyone. He was quick to rectify this terrible mistake in his head, but apparently the gods of chance did not accept take-backs. The door opened just at that moment, and into the store entered none other than Harry Bloody Potter.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, bloody fuck squared then tripled then fuckified to eternity. For a wild second Draco was not even in his body; floating incorporeally he could see the scene as if from above. There he was, dressed in his Muggle attire with his hair dyed black, and it didn’t matter because _Potter knew him_. He recognized him straightaway. This was a nightmare. No – this was far worse than that, because it was real, and Draco had absolutely no idea that doom had a physical presence inside one’s veins, but he certainly knew it now. Harry Potter. In his store. Harry Potter, looking at him. Fuck.

He just stood there, right there, clear as day. Hardly changed since the last time Draco saw him, way back during his trial, nearly seven years ago. Well, changed a little. He was slightly broader, and standing taller, in a dignified sort of way. Better clothes, too, no more the shabby hand-me-downs he used to wear. His hair looked just as messy as ever, perhaps even more so now, when the rest of him looked so put-together. And then the glasses were exactly the same, and so was the vivid shade of green behind them, even if the expression in these eyes now was not entirely familiar to Draco. It was like a sight from another life, but it was right here in front of him. Bloody fuck.

Draco exhaled a shallow breath, trying to keep his wits about him as his head was spinning. Dread and apprehension swam inside him in circles, and it was hard to keep track of what was going on outside. For example, the way Potter’s face seemed to be changing colors rapidly, from brown to pale to grey. Or the way his mouth fell open with surprise which became shock which then became acute disbelief. Draco held his tongue, not daring to be the first to speak, without even the slightest idea what to say anyway. He didn’t know what to do now.

"Malfoy? What the hell?” Potter was still standing at the threshold, one hand keeping the door partly open. “What are you doing here?”

“Selling flowers?” Draco tried. Merlin help him.

“ _What?”_ Potter looked about the premises as if expecting banners to drop from the ceiling, shouting ‘April’s Fool!’ although it was January. “What the fuck? Flowers?”

Draco nodded slowly. His mind was two bloodhounds running in circles after a rabbit. He couldn’t make them stop. “The shop is called Dragon Flowers. We don’t sell dragons, if that’s what you thought.”

“I – what – Malfoy, you’re alive!”

How astute. Nausea rose in startling warm waves in his belly. What to do? What to do? What was he meant to bloody do in a situation like this? _How_ can he break the least amount of rules?

“That is correct, yes.”

Potter did not at all seem reassured by his assent. “But – you were dead. Dead. For four years.”

“Well, I’m not. Dead, that is. I am very much alive. I don’t think they’d let a deceased person rent an establishment in this kind of neighborhood.” Ranting madly, yes, Draco, that surely was the way to go. He would have slapped himself if he possessed even half his faculties.

Potter gaped for a full minute. “You – this is your shop? You have a _flower_ shop in Muggle London?”

“Indeed.“

“You have – I don’t – can you just tell me what the hell is going on here? I went to your bloody _funeral_.”

Draco shrugged. “My condolences.”

“No – what – Malfoy! Your mother nearly fainted. Pansy Parkinson bawled her eyes out. They wrote about your suicide for weeks in the Daily Prophet. And all this time you were what, _here_?” his incredulity quickly morphed into frustration as Draco nodded.

“Once again, you are correct. I'm glad to see your Auror skills are coming into use - I always worried you may not be sharp enough for this kind of job.” There was a strange, jagged sort of elation in talking back to someone like that. Only his complete and utter hysteria could have allowed it: Draco hadn’t done it in _years_. It was hard to imagine where the words even came from.

Potter didn’t take the slightest offence; he seemed immersed to his ears in severe shock. “But – you – how – we buried you!”

For a second Draco felt tangibly nostalgic – there was something so familiar about the way Potter stammered. Then he sobered quickly, for there really was no time for silly things such as this, and besides his dread was drilling holes through him. “Well, consider me revived."

"People don't just come back from the dead, Malfoy." His voice cracked a little. 

"That's funny, coming from you - haven't you done exactly that?" There was something more important than anything right now. "And incidentally, my resurrection is a fact I would appreciate you keeping to yourself.”

“You _what?”_ Potter gasped, jaw dropping even lower. If his mouth would open a fraction more, a fishbowl would fit in there nicely.

“If it’s not too much to ask, I would greatly appreciate it. Like you said, I've been dead for nearly four years now, and I do not intend to return to the world of the living.”

It was a hard, potent silence that struck between them then, a sort of vibrating energy spreading through the room. Potter gawked at him for a moment, silent, eyes as wide as snow globes. Draco tried to keep looking straight at him, but it was a little like trying to hold a naked flame in his hands. Damn, it was nerve-wracking to see how this once fragile boy turned into a powerful young man. Draco visibly shook.

It must have been that; for Potter, upon observing the minute movement, gave a tiny nod of his own. Draco released a sigh and let his shoulders sag, some of the tension seeping away from him. "Thanks." Then, because he was mental and apparently had a death wish, “Now, is there anything in particular I can help you with?”

“Huh?” Potter looked even more lost than before.

“You did walk in here with a specific intention in mind, right? This is a flower shop. So presumably you… wanted to buy flowers? I can offer you a very alluring price on the roses.”

“Why?” Potter asked.

“Well, there was an error with the delivery, and we found ourselves knee-deep in heaps of – “

“No, I mean, why did you do it? Why make everyone think you died? Why hide from the rest of the world? And why here of all places?”

Draco bit his lower lip and let his heart calm down so he can hear himself think again. “Oh. That.” Instead of looking at the man at the door, he lowered his glance to the relative safety of the floor. “I hope I don’t sound too rude when I say I don’t think it’s really any of your business.”

A shade of burgundy colored Potter’s face with indignation. Draco saw it out of the corner of his eye. “You just made it my business, Malfoy! If you want me to lie about you being alive – if you want me not to tell anyone, you better at least give me a reason why. I think you owe me that.”

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. He thought it might be easier to do it this way. “Let’s just say that I’m… well… I’m not safe.”

“What do you mean?” he was startled by the note of concern in Potter’s tone.

“I mean I’m a bad influence on the people in my life. I brought them nothing but grief and trouble. Trust me, it's better for everyone that I’m gone.”

“How can you say that?” Potter’s voice was high and somehow moist. “How can it be better?”

“I’m not good for them. I’m not safe to be around. I’ve – look, I can’t really explain it, so you would just have to take my word on it. I am doing them all a favor by staying away, all right? It’s just for the best.”

It was terribly silent for a moment. “Does your mother know?”

Draco’s stomach churned. “No, and she can’t. Potter, you have to promise me you won’t tell a soul.”

“You don’t want your _mother_ to know?” Potter asked, disgusted. “When I see her, all frail and miserable as she is now, I’m just meant to – what, act like I’ve not just run into her son the other day? Is that really what you want?”

Draco nodded carefully. “No one can know. Gods, especially not her.” He thought of the words Potter used, _frail and miserable_ , and felt something inside him crack. Oh Merlin, not now. He cannot afford to do this right now. “Potter, please. You have to promise. I’m begging you.”

Draco opened his eyes just a crack, not quite brave enough to do more than that. A little blurry he could see Potter’s shoulders drop and his head bent down. He looked awfully dejected. “All right.”

“What?” he wasn’t sure that whisper was even audible.

“I said all right. I will not tell anyone about you being alive. It’s just… Malfoy, it’s the weirdest fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, and I had to fight a man with Voldemort’s face on the back of his head at eleven.” Potter leveled his eyes with Draco’s and gave him a long look. He felt shaky under that stare, a little less solid. Purely for something to do with his hands he grabbed the water bottle from behind the till and took a nervous sip. “When you say you’re not safe, do you… are you in trouble, Malfoy?”

He spluttered water all over the desk. It took a second before he was able to shake his head in a valid imitation of the way he would have reacted to a question like this say, seven years ago. “Thanks but no thanks, Potter. I’m absolutely fine. And there is nothing I need from the Savior, so you might as well just relax.”

“Okay. If you say so, I guess. If you can promise me that.”

Oh, bugger off, Draco thought. “Oh, bugger off.” It was intimidatingly refreshing to be able to say exactly what he had in mind.

Potter’s lip did a strange little dance, like it was trying to keep from breaking into a grin. “All right then. I’ll bugger off. Damn, it’s so bizarre… I thought you’d never tell me to bugger off again in my life.” He seemed almost pleased about it.

Draco was too shocked to think of something acceptable to say. “I can tell you to bugger off in a variety of ways that can quite literally make your head spin. Now please, bugger off, in all honesty. I’m about to close the shop anyway. Wait,” he said as Potter nodded and made to leave, because he really _was_ crazy, “you never got your flowers. What was it that you wanted?”

“Oh, right.” Potter bit his lip and stepped in, unsure but pulling on a brave face. “It’s… well, tomorrow is my mother’s birthday. I was in the area visiting my cousin, and I thought - dunno, I didn’t want to spell flowers for her. I wanted something more… real.”

Draco could only nod as his throat was constricted by a lump the size of a Quaffle. He tried several times to clear it. “Your mother’s name was Lily, wasn’t it?” he went from behind the register – damn his shaky legs – and quickly arranged a bouquet of mixed flowers, white and blue ones with tall green stalks for garnish. It had lilies of the valley, respectfully bowing their heads, gentle-looking Casablanca lilies and blue calla lilies. He handed it to Potter, his eyes soft. “Here. I think she’d like that.”

Potter looked at him very oddly indeed. In a strangled voice he asked, “How much…?”

Draco waved a hand. “On the house. A token of my appreciation. Please give your parents my regards.” It sounded like a stupid thing to say, but it felt essential in a way. He was certain Potter would be blabbering by their graveside anyway, and it would be nice to give him something to blab about.

“No, I want to pay for them – it’s your shop, after all, I don’t want to leave you out of pocket…”

“I insist on it.” So he will be in trouble – so fucking what? He was already going to be in a world of pain so deep, probably nothing mattered anymore. He nodded again. “Please, it’s the least I can do.” he meant it, too. Keeping Draco’s secret was not meant to be Potter’s burden. And on top of that… he couldn’t shake the feeling of imminent danger. _He_ warned him, no next time. But can He really do anything to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Blah, Trained Auror and all? Probably not. Still, unease was icy in his chest.

“Thanks, Malfoy. I’m… that’s nice. It’s still the weirdest bloody thing ever, but it is nice.” He cleared his throat and brushed a sleeve past his eyes. “See you around, I guess?”

A dull pain was developing behind his left eyebrow. “You’re joking, right? You can’t come back here. No one can know I’m alive, remember?” there it went again, that ring of impending doom in his ears… Gods, Potter was such an absolute pillock when he wasn’t busy World-Saving and everything.

“Right, right. I guess I _won’t_ see you around, then.” Potter looked like he wanted to say something more, but then just shook his head. He raised a hand in a quick goodbye, then disappeared behind the door. Draco exhaled and practically melted to the floor, hugging his knees and trying hard to calm himself down. What now? What now? What to bloody do now?

Panic made everything far more difficult, and instead of closing the shop in ten minutes, it took him nearly thirty. It was easy enough to act calm in front of Potter, because the alternative would have fucking crushed him, but now that he was alone Draco didn’t know what to do with himself. He was absolutely mad. Not only was he seen – and by Potter, of all the people in the world – but to add insult to injury he _spoke_ to him, too. As in, actually spoke, let his tongue roam free and say anything that bloody came to mind. Like he had any business doing that anymore, like he was free to do it. What possessed him to take such liberties out of nowhere? What insane notion could have possibly led him to be cheeky and outspoken and – and –

It was too much, all a little too much, and on the icy streets on the way to the flat Draco’s mind began to slowly but surely crumble to pieces. There was nowhere to hide, and he really went and did it now. He fucked up so bad, it would take years to get by this one. Years if not decades. Hell, he could be paying for this mistake his whole damn life. He was out of control, a loose cannon, and _there won’t be a next time_. By the time he made it to the door, Draco’s fingers shook too bad to allow the key in the lock, and he stood in the deserted hallway for the better part of ten minutes.

Finally he managed to stumble inside, blinking his eyes that didn’t see much, not entirely due to the darkness. There was no light in the living room, and the bedroom door was still closed. Was he alone? “Sir?” he tried in a tense whisper, then a little louder, “Sir?” no response. He must have been alone then. Draco sighed, took off his coat and hung it on the rack. The flat was bloody freezing, almost as bad as outside, and Draco wistfully thought of warming charms as he lowered himself to his knees in his corner of the living room. Gods, warming charms. And that little ball of flame he could conjure, too, and carry around in his pocket all day. Draco always loved those, ever since his days as a student in the frigid Slytherin dungeons, but now he was partial to them all. Every charm, spell or hex, every incantation or potion he could think of, all came with that bitter-sweet taste to them. Now that he couldn’t use magic at all he really understood how precious, how dear it was to him. He always knew it was essential – from the day he was born magic was in the very air he breathed. But he never really grasped how personal it was to hold a wand, how gloriously delicious it was to use this power. He didn’t know until his wand was taken from him and broken in two.

The memory hurt, and that just wouldn’t do to think about it now, as his knees were already buzzing pins and needles. Draco tried to concentrate on something else, more neutral. Not the dull pain behind his eyebrow, not the sting of his knees on the carpet, not the warm pull in his gut. Flowers. That was a safe topic. Absently he started to run a stock-check in his mind. Tulips, irises, orchids, roses… damn roses. The store was absolutely chock-full of them. For an uncareful second Draco wondered if perhaps He sent them on purpose – the idea of a fuzzy, lightheaded Draco was surely something He would find amusing – but then he checked himself and nipped the thought in the bud. It’s not like mistakes didn’t happen all the fucking time in the Muggle world. Four years of living like one, and Draco was closer than ever to understanding them, he reckoned. In fact he held a sort of grudging respect towards them. For a whole community to navigate life without magic was somewhat of a wonder. But they weren’t without their faults, Draco reminded himself in a weak imitation of His imposing voice. Their mad obsession with roses was one. Draco frowned when he remembered white roses were his mother’s favorites.

Merlin and Morgana, if there was one thing Draco couldn’t bear to think about… he shook the dampness out of his eyes. Imagining her voice was usually enough to bring him to tears. Trying to picture her face – he will definitely not be able to stay on his knees anymore. Which really began to hurt, incidentally. _Something else_ , Draco begged his mind. _Think of something else_.

Potter coming into the store was quite a whirl, wasn’t it? Now that he’d convinced himself no one can harm Saint Potter, and being sufficiently away from him, he couldn’t help but relax a little. It was so bizarre, seeing him there. Buying flowers for his dead parents… urgh, no… he looked quite fit, didn’t he? All muscles where he used to be lean and broad shoulders where he used to slouch. Draco couldn’t quite reconcile him with the image of the boy he’d remembered. The only things that remained the same were the ghastly glasses, the perturbing green eyes, and the mess he calls hair on his head. Still didn’t learn how to properly use a comb, Draco assumed. There were things one knew how to do, like defeating the greatest dark wizards in history, and things one just didn’t. And though his eyes looked the same, the expression in them altered slightly. It was far more… Draco couldn’t tell. Perhaps just the fact he wasn’t looking at him with such outright hostility. Or the fact he was actually looking at him, and Draco missed being seen so bad. No, that was a wrong way to go, too. He was plenty seen in here. No need for further attention, thank you very much. His knees started to tremble with exhaustion.

The heat in his gut only intensified, and for a moment Draco forgot about everything else. He stole a glimpse up at the living room window – the night sky suggested somewhere in the area of nine or ten. What the bloody hell? Where _was_ He? Sour gushes of nausea shot from his abdomen to his mouth. Surely He must be back soon? It was unlike Him to leave Draco be. Especially with what had occurred… He must already know something happened, must have sensed it as Draco’s feelings were off the charts. Perhaps that was the reason? Draco tried to calm the nervous ticks of anxiety. No, that couldn’t be the case. _He_ was probably just late in His meetings with the other men. Meetings that Draco had zero interest in, naturally. He'd been burned enough by sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and that was a mistake he was not likely to ever make again. So yes. It must be a meeting keeping Him away. _He_ wouldn’t leave him. _He_ _wouldn’t_.

For a moment Draco had to lean against the wall for support, since he was so dizzy he almost fell. The room was very dark, still the black behind his eyelids was darker. _He_ can’t leave him. Draco forced himself to take deep slow breaths. It's going to be fine, he said in his head, and then as it didn’t do the trick he said it out loud. “It's going to be fine.” When he said it about seventy-two times, his heart went back to pulsing at normal speed, and slowly toured back to its usual place behind his ribs rather than at the base of his throat. _It was going to be fine_. Draco knew what to expect, at least, and that had to be something. His knees were fiery gateways to hell. He said his mantra a hundred times more till he was only able to croak.

Another glance at the sky – must be three in the morning. What the fuck kept Him so long? Draco’s mind was absolutely spinning, and the ache in his abdomen steadily grew worse. Could he have done something to spur this reaction? Sure, what happened today was outrageous – nearing unforgivable – but would it really drive Him away? Then Draco sobered somewhat, a difficult thing to achieve through the numbing pain. Was it in some way connected to Potter? Could He be afraid of him enough to run away? The thought nearly made him smile. No, not scared then, but if so, what was it? Draco bit his lip. It couldn't be that He was trying to hurt Potter, could it? To make good on His promise to Draco, _there won’t be a next time_?

Can't think about that, though. There were enough things to dread which weren't Potter, and he had to stay away from them all anyway. Draco’s stomach growled loudly, but he didn’t dare shift from his position. He didn’t think he’d be able to walk, at any rate. His body was at breaking point, tired and famished and so bloody painful. At the moment he couldn’t feel his knees at all - instead his back hurt like a son of a bitch, and he thought he could scream with the agony. But that would be counter-productive; screaming would only induce more screaming, then crying, then the total annihilation of the self. No, he was not going to get into that. It was five in the morning and he had to control himself a little longer. His bladder was very close to bursting, and he thought with disgust of the water he drank so carelessly. Really, he should have known, should have expected something like this.

As the room swerved slowly before his eyes, Draco became more and more furious with himself. He should have known something of this magnitude was bound to happen. He was a fool, he was seen, and this was nothing but a very fair commencement to his punishment. How did he let it happen? How did he let anyone catch him? He shook his head, but that nearly got him crashing to the floor, he was so disoriented. Grabbing the wall once more, Draco let out a tiny sigh. Stupid man. Stupid, stupid, stupid man. He always does exactly the wrong thing. Even when he tries his hardest, it never comes to anything. He always ends up wrong, always disappointing, always losing. He thought of Potter again and his mouth was filled with bitterness. Then he thought of Him and his stomach ached with fear. Then he thought of his mother and his heart threatened to explode. After all this, he still couldn’t stop himself from thinking of her… he let his tears fall on the carpet, not bothering to wipe his face. He tried to keep his sobs to the minimum.

At long last – gods, it _was_ long, and a wonder that he lasted – it was morning. Draco guessed around six o’clock. Since he got no other instructions, he assumed he was to go to work as normal. Carefully he lowered himself to the ground, certain he wouldn’t be able to stand for at least some time. He was right. By the time he managed to crawl into the bathroom, his entire legs were sizzling with what felt like a colony of rabid fire-ants. Swearing under his breath Draco splashed some water from the tub on his face and hair, shivering with cold. He filled the tub with hot water and somehow plonked himself in it with what must have been unnatural strength. After about an hour in the water which grew lukewarm, then chilly, then cold, he felt secure enough to try his knees. That was a big mistake; he fell face forward on the tub’s edge, probably knocking some teeth loose. He could taste blood.

Draco had to wait another half an hour before his legs enabled him to stand up, and checked his reflection in the mirror. Thank Merlin, no missing teeth, just a little gash on his jawline. That was easily enough hidden. He applied some makeup on it with a sure hand, then made his careful way out. He didn’t dare to eat on his own accord, so he just wobbled to the front door. The bedroom was shut, and so he couldn’t change. Wrapping up to the best of his abilities he left for the shop, too tired and frightened to think about anything at all.


	2. To Be His

Walking to the store was an absolute nightmare, despite the fact it was only a quarter of a mile away. Be that as it may, it took him over thirty minutes to finally stagger through the glass door, heaving into the flowers and nearly choking on their intense scent. Somehow his flowers always seemed to be more fragrant than normal ones. Draco had no idea if it was something He did on purpose, because He liked the floral smell on him, or perhaps because He knew how sick their sweet perfume makes him. With some effort he washed his face in the little sink to wipe off the signs of exertion and sat down stiffly, knees still not on speaking terms with the rest of him. He had to stifle yawn after yawn - not exactly tired, but exhausted. There’s something about staying up all night prey to your worst thoughts and fears that left a man somewhat fatigued. Even worse, still; the tug in his abdomen, which increased all through the night, was about to drive him out of his damned mind. He couldn’t possibly take it much longer. He noticed his hands were shaking in his lap.

There were flower shipments to deal with, and water changing and arrangement making, but Draco couldn’t be bothered with any of it. With a spring of rebellion that was very unlike him nowadays, but was maybe like him at some point, he just left all the work for later and centered all the pretty flowers where they caught the eye the most. The older, tired ones he put at the back and decided to sell for a discount. What the hell, right? Since he was left alone to simmer on the heat of his own sins, he could stand to add a few more to the list. The retribution was bound to be monumental as it were. What could possibly frighten someone who already stood at the edge of a cliff, facing the inevitable abyss?

Of course, since he really wished for it with all of his heart, peace was just not going to happen. Draco wasn’t the type who got what he wanted in this life. The door opened within a fraction of a second from when he finally got back to resting his knees and three chattery ladies came in, far too chipper for his liking. He couldn’t help but sneer at them.

“Morning,” the shortest lady said, accompanying the cheerful greeting by a smile that was so endearing he choked on it. “My, you have some lovely flowers. Delilah, look at these! Are they not the most beautiful roses you’ve ever seen?”

“And the smell, too!” the lady he assumed to be Delilah pulled back her dark curls and sniffed a flower dry, each of her nostrils larger than a Galleon. “I’ve never smelled anything like it before!”

“Oh, and look, they have these adorable little butterflies – “ Draco was fairly certain he’d never seen these butterflies in his life. A short wave of revulsion rose within him. David, the delivery man, had a very peculiar way of flirting, or so it would seem. Did he really bring these dreadful things here and put them in the bouquets? Apparently, Draco not being willing to engage with him at all made for some bold moves on his part.

“Excuse me, how much for these?” the third lady, a plump little woman who looked like she was definitely someone’s aunt, rattled a bunch of roses at him. “If I want to buy, say, a dozen?”

Draco sighed and gingerly got up. He limped towards the till and leaned heavily on the desk, unsure of his legs’ ability to hold him. “It’s twenty pounds for a dozen. Or you can have this one,” he produced a ready-made bouquet with some wax flowers and carnations, “for merely thirty-five. Isn’t it gorgeous, ladies?” he flashed them a smile, ever the salesmen. He was well aware of the effect he had on women*. And on some men. Well, the effect he had, period.

“Oh, it is absolutely stunning! Maggie, we should definitely get that one. Here, love, and I’ll have the roses too. And two of these little butterflies, I simply have to. How much will they be?”

He had no idea, but since it was London he said, “Five pounds each.”

“Wonderful. There you go, dear.” The ladies squared up the notes, and their excited blathering kicked up a notch. “Her daughter’s getting engaged,” Delilah offered with a big grin to Draco, who nodded but couldn’t quite keep the smile on for much longer. “Little Gemma. Her boyfriend is going to propose, and he asked us for help. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Lovely,” Draco said automatically. The distance between him and weddings, him and lovey-dovey and romance and _sweet_ , was about as great as the distance between him and the moon. Of another planet. In another galaxy. In another universe.

“You are a very handsome young man, you know,” the soon-to-be-mother-of-the-bride beamed at him. Not just someone’s aunt, then. Draco could already picture the hat she was going to wear to the wedding; no doubt it would have little butterflies on it.

“Are you single, love?” it was so bold a question, Draco gaped in shock. Delilah gave him a wheedling look. “My daughter is twenty-six years old. She’s a very beautiful girl, isn’t she, Maggie?”

“Oh, the most beautiful. She has big blue eyes, clear as morning sky. You didn’t say if you were single?”

Draco had to laugh, he couldn’t help it. “I am spoken for, sorry. And in any case, I don’t think me and blue-eyes would have had much of a chance. I don’t typically go for the fairer sex.”

“Isn’t that a pity,” the plump little lady said, chewing her lip. “Ah, and I have just the boy for you, too. Oh well. If anything changes, you know…” she gave him a hopeful smile. Damn it, these cute little women and their cute little smiles. He nodded without meaning to.

“You never know.” That seemed to brighten her mood enough, and the three ladies bid him farewell and promised to come to him for the wedding flowers too. He gave them a card and sincerely wished never to see them again.

Of course, he should have known he wasn’t alone in the store when they left. His very body was shouting signals frightfully loud. It’s just that he was so tired, and the smell of the flowers was so strong, and the ladies really did leave his head reeling. When the familiar hand grabbed the back of his neck, he was genuinely alarmed. The sinking feeling he knew all too well was weighing him down, and he nearly fell to the floor.

“Is that true, Draco? You never know?” the fingers were cold against the delicate skin and he was seized by a sharp, dizzy sort of nausea.

Of course He had to hear that. Draco closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean that, Sir.”

“No, of course you didn’t. Because you do know, Draco. You know very well.” There was a little exhale, and a slight pinch to his skin.

“Yes, Sir. I know.”

Perhaps it was odd, considering the impending punishment, but there was something definitely calming about His presence there. Not even because the pain of His absence was finally gone and thinking was made possible again. Draco found himself longing to just fall into His arms. The night was so long and so hard... he needed Him now, needed Him bad. But not yet; he had to wait. Had to be invited first.

The sigh became a growl. “I missed you last night, Draco. I am not used to spending a full night away from you. It was… more difficult than I’d anticipated.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “Me too, Sir.”

And there it was; the large hands turned him and it was all he could do not to bury himself in the wide chest, furling into the fabric of His shirt and inhaling Him deep. Merlin, he didn’t even realize how much he needed this. Draco was so scared, so scared and so alone. Being around Him was still frightening enough, but gods, at least he wasn’t alone. At least he knew all his sins could be absolved, all his mistakes forgiven. He needed to be forgiven so bad, it physically hurt.

“Draco, my Draco…” the long arms wrapped around him and Draco couldn’t help it; he sobbed like a child who got terribly lost, disintegrating into the man, falling completely apart. All those things he didn’t want to think of – all those things he couldn’t think of – flashed before his eyes and rattled in him, screeching and steaming and livid.

“Sir – please – “ he couldn’t hold himself up anymore, but couldn’t possibly let go. Thankfully He understood and lifted him in the air effortlessly, still holding him tight and stroking his hair tenderly. Gods, how _tender_ He could be sometimes. It was really worth it all. Draco cried his hysteria away, slowly regaining his composure, coming back to himself.

 _He_ took him to the back room where there was a small sofa, and gently placed him on it. Draco was shivering with the aftermath of his panic attack, and was absolutely thrilled to have the strong arms still encasing him, out-of-his-mind ballistic with joy, not at all terrified. But then they pulled away, and he did the only thing he could think of – grabbed for them, raising his eyes in alarm. Draco's long lashes were laced with tears, and he could barely see the pale figure. In the back room, where the smell of the flowers was fainter, it was easy to discern His smell.

Silently He bent in front of the couch, eyes leveling with Draco’s. There was a question on the face so close to his, one which Draco knew and that he was desperate to answer correctly.

“Do you want this, Draco?”

“Please.”

“Are you sure? I know you’ve been up all night. Your knees must be so sore.”

“Please, Sir,” Draco whispered, voice low and throaty. “Please, I need you, need this, please.”

The fair face was hesitant for a second, but then was lit by such passion, raw and intimidating and so very necessary to make Draco feel whole again. _He_ grabbed him with both hands, and for a second, nothing hurt anymore. To be wanted like this, to be needed, that was everything Draco asked for. And for once, he actually got it. The sofa was crowding and uncomfortable, but He made quick work of Draco’s clothes and then there he was, naked and bare and open like an infested wound. Sooner than he could take a deep breath He was on him, thrusting like mad, kissing him like fire and ice simultaneously. A sudden fear washed over him, rocked him rather to the point of screaming out loud, but his tongue was subdued by His powerful one and his arms were forced above his head. Draco could only grunt with the minutest of sounds as fingers found his entrance and then He was in him, warm and big and inescapable. To feel the weight on him, pinning him down, was both excruciatingly pleasant and wonderfully devastating. Everything was there again, like in the first time; the fear, the need, the shame, the want, the pain… the innocence that still to this day made him wonder… the horrible, horrible humiliation, and how much he was aching for it…

Then it was over, and Draco was panting and sweaty and sticky. With a few well-aimed strokes He let him come, and it was only the release that made him realize the pain was back. In every part of him, but mostly in his chest. The secret he kept weighed him down, and he had to confess before it tore him apart.

“Sir,” he began, but was hushed by a large hand on his head.

“It’s all right, Draco. I know. I’ve seen.”

The small Muggle contraption that for some reason He used instead of a normal tracking spell flickered its red light. Draco looked at it, sighing with relief so intense, the whole world was spinning for a moment. “I’m so sorry. I never thought – I didn’t know what to do – “

“You’ve done well, Draco, really well. Nothing less than what I expected of you. You’ve done wonderfully.” The man grabbed him in a tight embrace, and Draco felt himself melting into His warmth, the kindness of His tone. Paralyzing fear and disgust were shoved to their usual, faraway corner. To be forgiven like this was… he couldn’t even begin to say what it meant to him.

“Thank you, Sir, thank you,” he peppered the wide neck with little kisses wet from his tears. The man laughed.

“Merlin, Draco. I can’t believe how - hell, you are so beautiful. Even with this ridiculous color in your hair.” _He_ flicked His wand, and for a second Draco saw a silvery lock before it was swept behind his ear. “I truly did miss you.”

“I did too, Sir. Last night was…” he couldn’t find the right words to describe it. “I thought maybe you’d –“ no, he simply couldn't. It was too painful to continue. Draco closed his eyes and felt the hand stroking his hair gently.

“You thought I left.”

He swallowed hard. “I was so scared.”

The warm body squeezed against his. “You needn’t ever be scared. As long as you are loyal to me, you have nothing to fear. I will never leave you, my Draco. Never.”

Draco released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. _Yes_ , he thought to himself, _gods, yes, please_. Because he simply could not be alone, could not be left to his own devices anymore, not without breaking totally and completely. And he knew it now, knew it so well it was practically engraved in his heart. _His Draco_. Fuck, how much he needed to be His.

The hands ushered him up to sitting on the sofa, and He stood above him. Draco bowed his head low. “Thank you, Sir. It means… everything to me.” A slight tug at his chin made him raise his head, opening his eyes. There was a familiar look on the pale face above him that sent a cold shiver down his spine.

“I just can’t help it, even if I didn’t want it to begin with. You are very special to me, Draco. It seems like I can never get enough of you. I want you, I can’t help but to want you all the time…”

“You have me, Sir. I am yours,” he said, because it was true. The brown eyes were alight and a long hand sent to cup his face.

“Say that again.”

“I am yours.” As hard as it may have been to get there… it was true.

He took him right there and then, again, half on the sofa and half on the floor. Draco didn’t even fret; he let the long fingers stroke him, the body above his pin him down. The pain stopped being of any consequence, both in his body and his mind: he didn’t care anymore, didn’t care about anything. Right here he was wanted and he was loved and he was _forgiven_ , and that was all that mattered. The terrible mistakes he made… his silly fears and worries… they were nothing against that look in His eyes. Draco couldn’t say no to those eyes, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. Almost not at all.

It was only slightly longer than the last, and all the while He kept staring right at him, gobbling him up in his entirety. Draco felt so small against these eyes. So small he could probably roll into the pocket of his shirt, now lying on the floor, and disappear forever. The longer he was watched, the smaller he got. By the time He was done, Draco was no larger than a thumbnail. Lowering his gaze to the floor he bent his head down, and was rewarded by a soft kiss to his temple.

“Get dressed, Draco. There is more work to be done today. Some more customers will come in soon.”

“Yes. Thank you, Sir.” Draco waited until He left before picking up his clothes from the floor and slithering into them. Perhaps it was due to the fact this was yesterday's outfit, but he felt very dirty now. When he came back out to the store front, He was gone. It took Draco some time to notice, but so were the butterflies. They all lay now in a heap of ashes on the floor.

***

The rest of the day passed without him noticing, and somehow it was already five and he closed the shop, leaving the afternoon's memories behind him. Moments like these, soft and warm and tender, were rare and short-lived. He was fully prepared to be greeted with nothing but hostility when he got to the flat. He didn’t much mind, though. As long as someone will _be_ there. He didn’t think he can stomach another night like the last.

His knees were still behaving atrociously, and it took longer than thirty minutes even to make it back. But when he fumbled the keys in the keyhole and pushed the door in, holding in his other hand a trembling bouquet of pansies, he saw the light spilling from within and released a long breath. He was mostly relieved. Then he steeled himself, remembering suddenly. He was to expect the worst – always had done. When you expect the worst, you can rarely get torn beyond repair. On the occasions when reality was even worse than his worst, he simply gave in and fell into it head-first. There was nothing to do about it, not now, not ever. Shaking slightly he came inside.

“There you are. I thought you’d be back earlier.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. My knees don’t seem to cooperate so well today.” Draco bowed his head and fixed his gaze on the carpet. The tall man neared him and placed a hand on the small of his back.

“I can see that. Come, sit down.” Head kept down, he let let himself be led to the sofa in the living room and sank into it, unease and anticipation fighting for dominance inside him. His whole body was extremely still though his heart raced like mad in his chest. “You brought flowers. Pansies – your favorites.”

There was nothing about Draco He didn’t know. All the things he loved most and that he detested, all the things that frightened and delighted him, every passing thought he ever had. Draco was laid bare before Him like a tree in winter, his branches broken and lifeless and his trunk scratched and blotched by the constant axe of his life. _He_ could reach into his mind with much ease, but usually there was no need for that – Draco was already accustomed to the uncompromising degree of honesty that was required of him. There was nothing he didn't share, everything he had and that he was, so much so that at some point he stopped being his own and began to be His. It was a consolation on many levels, and an abomination on others. It was his life, and the only one he could imagine having. Draco felt the light touch at his chin, releasing him from the forced state of rest, and gave the flowers a frightened glance.

“Yes. For you.”

There was a pause, and his anxiety began to buzz, cold in the pit of his stomach. Draco could hear his heart beating stupendously fast. “You brought them for me?”

“I wanted to… thank you… for today…” his own voice sounded raspy and uneven. Draco withdrew into himself on the sofa, mortified. The silence was longer this time, and with every passing second he could feel himself growing more and more hysterical. What kind of unbelievable nonsense was this? Bringing Him _flowers_? What was he, some love-sick puppy-eyed buffoon? What next? Writing a _poem_? Draco's throat closed up and breathing became increasingly harder.

“Sit still, Draco. I will fix your knees.” Did he imagine it, or did the voice sound a little less certain? There was only ever one tone He would take with him; commanding and extremely confident. It could be soft or harsh, loud or only a touch above a whisper, but always with unyielding determination. It wasn’t any less powerful now – it still held every potential to reduce Draco into a blubbering mess of nerves – but it was almost with… he didn’t know. Some sort of doubt?

A spell was cast; he felt the whoosh of magic and suddenly there was marvelous warmth in his knees, spreading from their center and into his whole body. Draco uttered a startled gasp, closing his eyes, committing to this magnificent sensation. Quite often he needed healing, and he was frequently provided it, but this spell he did not remember feeling. It passed through every nerve, muscle and blood vessel in him, vibrating with energy that was both sweet and intense. Draco did not know he could have it until it filled him in every possible way, fizzing like soda. Maybe he was making this up, but from behind his closely-shut eyelids he thought he could see a light shining very near, almost like it was emanating from his very body.

When it was finished, he was too overwhelmed to do a thing. Such a positive feeling he didn't have since… no, he might never have experienced in his life. It was more than magic, more than a miracle. It was more than anything he could have ever imagined. Overpowered by gratitude, he finally opened his eyes and looked at the man towering above him.

To say He was beautiful was like saying the ocean was a little wet. If one of the gods took a human form, this is probably how he would have looked in Draco’s eyes; all dark and light and full of angles. Black hair fell in smooth locks over a long neck, dark brown eyes deeper than the center of the earth could tear right through you in a glance. If features could speak, His would say: _Nobility. Elegance. Leadership_. High cheekbones and a smart nose presided the milky complexion, full lush lips were currently parted in a smile. When He smiled, Draco was done for; he’d melt into a puddle and could not even remember to breathe. And right now, the smile was so bright and so deep, more so than he’d ever seen it. Draco's heart, rather than beating even faster which would be physically impossible, simply stopped. Chin upturned, eyes misty, he gaped in awe.

“My Draco,” the smile widened, and that was bloody it. Draco could only gasp when the long arms collected him from the sofa and swung him in the air, landing him softly on the carpet. He held his breath as He kissed him, soft and sweet and very improbable. This was very different from their usual way. It was almost too confusing to take in, but enthralling at the same time, and he was lost in this bliss. Draco could not understand what it meant any more than he could make it stop. Within seconds he was naked, and the coarse fabric of the carpet was scratching his bare back. Above him He was still undressing, slowly, meaningfully. Draco swallowed in his eyes the immaculate form, the muscular figure he admired, the hands of which he was so frightened and their touch he so needed. Panic was only a small bubble in the distant regions of his mind. Need was absolutely overwhelming.

It was a little like the last time in the back room, but also different. This time, He took careful measures to hit it – that little ball of light inside Draco which when switched on, allowed him to see every color of the rainbow behind his eyelids. Pleasure – deep, hot, breathtaking pleasure shot through him, and he could not help the deep moan, the horrified and joyous moan that escaped his lips without a thought. And then when He did it again – stars exploded and were reborn before his very eyes, and Draco moaned once more, a guttural sound that came from the deepest parts of him. _He_ must have heard it – Draco should have been terrified, but he couldn’t be anymore, not when a thousand supernovas shone inside him. With a few more thrusts he could sing out loud; the world was tipped on its head and spun wildly, and Draco was spinning with it out of reach… out of control…

They came together, which wasn’t much of a surprise; by this point Draco was more an extension of Him than his own person. With a sigh He crashed on top of him, and Draco could have sworn He was smiling still. It was so… so… he had absolutely no words. When he thought to himself he should expect the worst on his way here, this was definitely not what he had in mind.

Eons passed before Draco was released and pulled into standing. “Are you all right, my love?”

“Yes, Sir,” he answered without being sure. Honestly, he had no idea how he was. His head ached and his arse was aflame, nausea still did somersaults inside him, and nothing made any sort of sense anymore.

“Come, you must wash yourself. I have something to ask of you, and I wish to do it while you’re fully clothed.” Draco nodded and followed the tall figure to the bathroom.

Showered and dressed, his mind still conveniently numb, Draco faltered into the kitchen. “You must be hungry, Draco. Here.” There were two bowls of soup and slices of buttered toast set on the table, and he noticed them with evident confusion. This was odd. They almost never ate together. Draco followed the man’s movements cautiously, blowing first on the soup then taking small gulps. It was scalding hot, and in the very first instant it touched his tongue the soup burned it to a crisp. It didn’t matter. There was no chance he'd have noticed the flavor anyway, not with the proximity between them, not with the way He was looking at him.

After what must have been forever, the food was gone. A light cough startled him into attention. “Draco, have you noticed anything… unusual today?”

Something hurt - his chest felt tight and full of thorns. There was a high-pitched cry of alarm in his mind and his head was going to burst with it. Danger. “What do you mean, Sir?”

“On your way home. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on your walk? Perhaps saw something you didn’t expect to see?”

Now he was just perplexed. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Sir.” Draco was aching to ask why, but that would have been rude, and he was not going to make that mistake again.

“I see. Well, I might as well tell you now. Harry Potter has tracked you today and followed you home. He kept a good distance so you never saw him, but he was there nevertheless.”

Only years of practice stopped him from throwing up the soup still warm in his belly, and it was a very near thing. In the short time since he’d seen him, Draco very much forgot all about his encounter with Potter. There was only enough room for Him in his mind. “He – what?”

“That raises obvious difficulties, of course. Now that he knows where you live, he could tell others. He could try and come here. There is a reason, Draco, that I have such strict rules. I told you there could not be a next time, and I’m sure now you see why. We are both quite compromised.”

Panic. This was panic. Over anything else, it was panic. “Sir?”

“I see only one solution to this predicament, Draco. I’m afraid you’re going to have to see him again.”

“Sir?” hysteria forced his voice out roughly.

“He will not leave until he is satisfied, Draco. I’m afraid there really isn’t any other choice. You do know whom it is we are dealing with here – I daresay you know very well. You have shared much with me over the years, after all. He will not leave before he knows more, and there isn’t much we can do about him on our own. You will have to tell him - not about us, of course. About Azkaban.”

Draco's mouth was too dry to respond immediately. “I don’t know whether I can do it, Sir. Talk to him. I don’t know if I can be trusted.”

There was a deep sigh. “I will help you in whatever way I can, Draco. But it is up to you to draw his attention and gain his trust. Do you understand? This is the only way we can carry on as we were. This is the only way there could ever be an _us_. Do you not want it, Draco? Do you not want me?”

Little beads of comprehension slid down his consciousness, but he was too agitated to string them together. “Of course I do.” Was there even the slightest of doubts? _Could_ there ever be even the slightest of doubts?

“In that case, you have to do it. You have to do it for me, Draco, but more than that… you have to do it for you. You know what happens if you are found. You know what the repercussions will be.” Draco nodded. He did know, only a little too well. “So will you help me, Draco? Will you do this for us? Will you give us the chance we need?” _He_ clasped Draco’s hand between His strong ones. Fighting the hysterical tears, Draco nodded again.

“Yes, Sir. I will do anything for you.” He felt a soft kiss on his forehead before succumbing to his own panic, and fell head first on the table.

~*~

*"I am aware of the effect I have on women" - The Office (American version)


	3. Talking is Just Another Type of Torment

The feeling in his stomach was decidedly rotten. Draco knew something had changed, but he didn’t really understand what. Things – wonderful things, improbable things – kept happening that night, and he could find no explanation to them. Not only that he wasn’t punished for what happened with Potter, not only that he was healed like he was with that terrific bit of magic he’d never seen before, not only that they ate together – later that night He even took Draco to His _bed_. Not once in three years had Draco slept on the bed. He was so tired that he fell asleep immediately, warm chest glued to his back, but even in his dreams he was confused. The world he woke up to was uncomfortably new, and Draco didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

The thing was, Draco knew his life. He was used to it. He had a solid routine, one where he knew what to expect and when it would come. More than that; one where he knew who to be. He knew when to be quiet and when to speak. He knew when to bow and when he was allowed to give a scorching look of defiance (answer: nearly never). But he _knew_. In this brave, post-Potter new world, Draco had no idea what to do anymore. When he woke up in the morning on the mattress, he was utterly lost. Can he go to the bathroom? Is he allowed to leave the bed? What on earth was expected of him? He hated it. Consistency, that was what he thrived on, what he needed. This flimsy do-as-you-please shtick was grating on his nerves.

Of course, it wasn’t entirely like that. There were still rules that demanded following and customs to be kept. Draco made His breakfast (toast and tea being the only things he was allowed to attempt in the kitchen) and waited patiently to be granted permission to eat too. He looked down and said nothing and nodded to anything He said. Still… there was a rumbling, far in the distance, or perhaps only inside his head. Thunder. A storm was coming, and Draco never really liked the weather. _He_ was tense, and when He was tense, Draco had no fucking chance. There was too much on the line for him to lose it all again.

Draco could barely swallow as he made his way to the shop, since apparently his throat had temporarily closed for construction. He thought of what he would have to do later today, if Potter really does show. He hadn’t spoken about Azkaban in – well, never, to anyone but Him. In all honesty, Draco wasn’t certain he was able to. There was too much… _blah_ , too much darkness, too much sweat-covered-nightmares and barely-healed-scars that affected his waking hours just as much as his sleep when prompted. To show someone all of that just wasn’t something he was programmed to do. For years he was trained relentlessly to shut his mouth. Screw that; his whole life he was taught to bottle everything down, to keep a tight lid on it all and place it somewhere even he won’t remember. How was he meant to override all of that and just… what, talk about it? The very idea seemed ludicrous.

Not to mention it was Potter he was meant to talk to, Harry Potter, someone who knew Draco for most of his life and who didn’t like him even then, back when he really _was_ Draco. How can he be expected to understand? To want to listen, even? And of course, him being an Auror would only complicate the situation. What if he decided to investigate? What if he would look into things that should never, ever, ever see the light of day?

The door opened and spared him having to think about it anymore. A small but incessant string of customers walked in and out, and he found himself desperate to occupy his burning mind with _something_. David was back with more butterflies in his flowers, and Draco actually smiled at him, he was so dazed. People bought flowers. People bought more flowers. Really, people should stop buying the stupid things, he thought to himself with contempt. The air in the room – or maybe just in his lungs – felt heavy and thick. It was alarming. Draco threw away a couple of truly hideous bouquets of carnations and made a point of refusing to sell an old bugger some lilacs for half price because, as the elderly knob insisted, _they were not bloody purple_. Draco very politely did not punch him in the face. He wasn’t too far off it, though.

In the end, inevitably, the clock struck five, and Draco had never been less thrilled to leave the suffocating shop. It was a cold night even considering it was the end of January, and as Draco closed the door behind him he found that he simply cannot take another step. A deep sense of foreboding swirled inside him in startling speed, and his fingers were shaking when they brushed stray hairs out of his eyes. There was only one thing for him to do, really, but to bring forth his limbs in order to do it seemed impossible. With a grunt he leaned on the shop door, pressing his forehead to the glass. It was freezing and somehow stabilizing, and for a minute he just watched as his breath fogged it up and the golden letters on the door became hard to see. Right now it read _Dra-n Flowers, open-g ours Mon- Sa 08:0- 7:00._

Well, now, he told himself, but his feet just wouldn’t listen. Come on. Step by step. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice in the matter; he could not risk stirring His wrath, not when the balance was so shoddy between them. How bad could it possibly be, right? He just needs to tell Potter a little about what happened in Azkaban, but not too much so he won’t ask too many questions, and somehow make him go away and never come back. Piece of cake. This was no time to be lily-livered. He shook himself once, then again, and a third time because he really hated when his mind thought in flowers, before detaching from the door and finally beginning to move.

Walking was far easier with his knees all healed, and now it was only the misgivings in Draco’s gut making him wobble slightly on the pavement. Five minutes into his walk he stole a glance back and squinted his eyes. Yes, over there by the bin – Draco could almost see it, a reflection of the light, a shimmer. His stomach did a complicated double-flip from the world of Olympic diving. There he was.

In a sudden move Draco spun on his heels and stared at the bin. “Come out, Potter. I know you're there.” The silence was only disturbed by the wind; the street was completely empty but for the two of them. That is, if Draco was correct in his assumption. “Potter, it’s too cold to be standing here like this. Will you just come out?”

Another anxious moment passed before he could hear the rustling of magic and Potter materialized in front of him. “How did you know I was there?”

“I do know what a disillusionment charm looks like,” Draco sneered, although in all honesty he would never have found Potter if He hadn’t told him what to look for. “Let’s get to the more pressing issue, though, shall we? What the hell are you doing here? I thought we had an agreement? You said you understood?” there was pleading in his voice, unintentional yet desperate. A part of him still hoped Potter would just walk away, that he can make him do that without having to… Potter looked at him, all miserable green eyes and furrowed eyebrows.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t... you sounded so – and the whole thing was just so – I had to come back. To investigate some more.”

Every hair on Draco’s body bristled. “Investigate? What did you…?” the sound of him swallowing was positively deafening.

“Look, I didn’t tell anyone, all right? I’ve not opened an official inquiry or anything. I just needed to – I mean, you were bloody dead!”

Terror shifted into anger, or something of the like; Draco wasn’t able to understand whatever it was his stomach was currently performing, riveting though it was. “So you thought you’d just spy on me?”

“I just wanted to see…” his voice wavered.

“Well? Have you seen enough?” Draco’s was very quiet, but as cold as the wind howling around them. “Are you satisfied now? Can you finally go back to your no doubt morbidly-dull, picture-perfect life?”

Potter sucked in his lower lip. “You seemed wounded yesterday. You walked like you were hurt. I wanted to… I had to see what’s happened.”

“Had to? You _had_ to see what’s happened? Why, Potter? I didn't ask for your help. I do not want your help. As I told you before, I'm fine. I don't want anything from you other than you leave me alone!” He was out of breath by the end of this one. Damn, it was hard to stop once he got his tongue rolling with sweet, sweet words of resentment. It’s been too long since he’d been able to say them to anyone who actually knew him.

Potter looked unconvinced. “What happened, then?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What happened yesterday? If you were fine, why did you barely even make it to your flat last night?”

Draco fixed him with a pointy glare. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall giving you permission to delve into my personal life, Potter. You might get away with whatever you want nowadays, but not this. I am under no obligation to tell you anything.”

“No, of course you’re not _obligated_ to, it’s just that… I have to make sure. No, I mean, I want to make sure. I know you don’t owe me anything, and I’d understand if you’d refuse, it’s only… I feel like I owe it to your mother.”

“My mother?” Draco started. “Why?”

Potter looked highly uncomfortable. “She’s… well, she saved my life, sort of. Back at the battle of Hogwarts, I’d be dead if it weren’t for her, and I was never able to repay her in kind. My testimony didn’t count for so much at the trials – you were sent to Azkaban anyway. And I just feel like I have to do this for her. Even if she wouldn’t know. Just to make sure you’re okay.”

“And isn’t this enough, me telling you that I am?” he felt like pulling his own hair out in clumps.

There was a long and strained pause. “No.”

Draco exhaled the deepest sigh of his life. Fucking Potter. He rubbed his cold cheeks in his hands for a moment. “Fine. You can come to the flat and see for yourself.”

“Really?” the light in the green eyes was almost hard to bear now. “Oh, that’s great. It won’t be long, I promise. I just want to see with my own eyes that you’re doing okay, and then I’d be gone. Forever.”

Draco nodded, although he didn’t really believe him, and started walking. He had every intention of leading the way, but Potter obviously remembered where the flat was, for he walked very confidently besides him. Draco hated that. He didn't feel confident about anything since he was sixteen. Nowadays, his confidence resembled more a fragile piece of ancient china whose days were numbered, and single-digit at that.

It was far beyond weird, walking into the flat with Potter by his side. It was far beyond weird to have Potter’s eyes constantly on him, to look back at them like had no problem doing it. It was far beyond weird how normal it felt, to be like that with another person, as if he hadn’t forgotten what it’s like. He gestured towards the empty rooms and turned on the light switch.

“There, you can see for yourself. Nothing out of the ordinary.” That was a bit rich of him to say, as every single one of his nerves tingled with the unusualness of the situation.

Potter scanned the place in his eyes. “You live here alone?”

This lie was exceptionally easy. “That’s right. One bedroom, one bed. You can go around and have a look, if it will give you peace of mind.” Potter took his invitation to walk around the flat, wide eyed and jaw clenched. While he did that, Draco took the time to examine him. Today he was wearing a tight pair of dark jeans, with a cream-colored Aran jumper that made the green in his eyes pop. Draco found it made his mouth water if he stared for too long. Looking closer now, Potter was in fact quite changed since his Hogwarts days; he filled a little, definitely grown out of his scrawny build. Next to him, Draco felt practically lanky. He was still as thin as he was back then, if not a tad more gaunt-looking.

Not just the appearance of Potter’s body changed, but his entire demeanor did too. He walked around in a way that seemed easy, like he was perfectly aware of his body and assured of its strength. Draco found he envied that as well. For so long his body wasn’t even his own, and to be so confident in one’s form felt as unachievable to him as riding a Cleansweep-360 to the sun.

Draco followed Potter in his eyes all around the place: inspecting the sofa and the stately armchair in the living room, the rough carpet that sometimes felt like knives on Draco’s skin; from there to the kitchen, opening the cupboards (so nosy, Draco thought with distaste), observing closely the gas stove and even looking inside the refrigerator. He didn’t follow him into the bedroom, but he knew well enough what Potter will find – a king-sized bed, neatly made, a night stand on its right and a soft rug to its left. His slippers were on it at the moment, but usually that was where Draco slept. The cupboard was full of clothes that seemed like they could belong to one person. He dawdled in front of the phoenix painting in the hallway, almost like he was about to comment on it, but then moved on. The last room Potter checked was the bathroom, and he came out of it with a grim expression.

“Well? Satisfied with your inspection?” Draco asked as he parked himself in front of him, looking everywhere but in Draco’s eyes. “Is it to your liking enough, or will I have to find another flat in order to please you?”

Potter scuffed the carpet with his shoe. “Jesus, Malfoy, calm down. You don’t have to be so bloody dramatic about this.”

Draco could merely stare at him. “And?”

“And…” Potter looked so tired. “Yeah, I guess the place is all right. You live here alone, you said?”

“I did, and I do. I also said I didn’t need your help. Funny how you can get caught up on some of the things I say, and completely ignore others.”

“I didn’t ignore it, I just… why here, Malfoy? Why on earth would you be living here?”

Draco shrugged. “Cheap enough rent, close to the shop.”

“Why do you have a flower shop to begin with?”

“Because I am forever in awe of their incredible healing and magical properties,” Draco answered impatiently. “Why do you care so much? What’s it to you?”

"Nothing, just, I don’t understand why you’re living like a Muggle out here in the middle of practically nowhere, alone. I can’t wrap my head around it.”

Something hot and painful started in his chest, and Draco really didn’t have the time to get into it, since he was preoccupied by being fucking terrified. It was coming, and he didn’t like it. He wasn’t ready. “It’s not like I can do magic with my wand broken in two.”

“You can always buy another one.”

Gods, Potter was being dense. Draco wanted to smother him, him and those big, earnest green lanterns of his. Instead he laughed, and the sound was both foreign and jarring to his ears. “It’s not as easy as it sounds. There are many restrictions on parolees like me, and not everyone would be willing to sell me a wand anyway.”

“All right, so it’s not easy, but it’s still possible.”

Draco didn’t know what to do. Talking about – that – still felt perfectly impossible, but avoiding it would not get him anywhere with this bastard. He took a deep and unhelpful breath. “Maybe I didn’t want to live in the wizarding world anymore. Maybe I opted out.”

“Why?”

“Why? Can you not think for yourself why? Are you really this dim, or are you just incredibly naïve?”

“I’m not – “

“Oh, Merlin, I can’t do this. I can't have this conversation. With you. It’s…” Draco shook his head in disbelief. His temper was rising, and there was nothing he could do to keep his voice from matching it. “You come into my life after all these years and you think you get to _understand_ everything? I have no possible way to explain it all to you, nor the intention. What happened to me in your precious world was enough to make me turn the fuck away, all right? I ran as fast as I could. I somehow ended up here. End of story.”

Potter looked winded, like he and not Draco just gave a full-blown rant. An awkward silence stretched between them, and Draco knew he isn’t out of the woods yet. He could see the wheels moving behind Potter’s eyes, and knew he did not satisfy his curiosity one bit. Potter would still want to know more, and he will not leave until Draco gave him _something_. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Tea?”

“What?” Potter sounded alarmed.

“Tea. Would you like some? I’m too tired to fight with you. Let’s have a tea and I’ll tell you the bloody story you’re anxiously waiting for.”

“I’m not waiting for… yeah, tea sounds good.” Potter followed Draco into the kitchen, where he boiled the kettle and prepared two cups. He used the rubbish leaves that He didn’t like anyway - it seemed imprudent to be using His tea for Potter. Blasphemous, even.

They sat down at the table and stared uncomfortably at each other for some time. When he felt he simply can’t take it anymore, Draco sighed. “Listen, Potter. Azkaban was not easy for me. I – some of the things that happened there were a bit beyond my capacity, to be frank. When I got out... I thought it was over. During my parole, I thought I can… I don’t know, I thought I could do it, but obviously I couldn’t. There was no miraculous rising from the ashes sort of thing. I figured that the only way for me to regain a shred of normalcy was to cut myself off completely. It was my only way to survive. Can we please just call it at that?” This was about as far as he was willing to go. He could not divulge anything more, not if he wanted to keep his sanity.

Potter took a sip from his tea. “I thought there were no more Dementors in Azkaban these days.”

Slowly, Draco nodded. “There aren't.”

“So… I don’t understand… I mean, I can’t imagine prison being a nice experience, but – “

“The human guards were enough on their own, I assure you. Dementors are dark creatures, and their whole purpose is evil, but… I often thought I would have liked them better.”

“Are you mental? Dementors over human guards? What could they possibly do that would be worse than bloody Dementors?”

“Oh, dear gods.” Draco bent his head to the table and laughed until he exhausted himself. It was again that sick laughter that left his whole body prickled and tense. “Potter, you are unbelievably innocent. I can’t…” he wiped his eyes, shaking his head. “Were you told as a child that there’s nothing to fear but fear itself? Well, that’s utter bollocks. There is so much worse than fear. So, so much worse… Dementors can only force you to live your past. Humans can do that too, but they have the added ability to make your present insufferable, and to burn to ashes your future.”

Potter said nothing for a moment. “Are you saying they tortured you?”

“Tortured?” Draco’s voice was very quiet. “That’s one way to put it, yes.”

“Cruciatus curse?”

He bit down the initial, emotional and entirely idiotic response he was almost careless enough to shout. “Sometimes.”

“That's a serious allegation, Malfoy. A very serious one.”

Draco did not know what the look Potter gave him was supposed to mean. “Yes.”

“I’ve actually been to the prison myself a couple of times, during training.”

This was a very vexing conversation. Draco was torn between anger with Potter’s stupidity, general fear of opening this can of flobberworms, amusement at his innocence and a desperate sort of sadness that threatened to swallow him whole. “All right.”

“There’s Aurors there too, in the prison, you know. Are you saying they didn’t do anything to stop the guards?”

Draco busied his hands with the hem of his shirt so he wouldn’t clench them into fists. “You’re asking if they did anything to _stop_ them? You are not naïve, Potter, you’re straight up delusional. The Aurors were the more creative ones, if I’m being honest.” He was surprised to hear himself speak, since he _wasn’t_ going to say any more, and this was surely beyond enough. It was a little like hearing someone else talk, with the amount of control he had over his tongue.

“That can’t be right, Malfoy,” Potter said, hands shaking and rattling his cup. “There’s no way Aurors would do something like that.”

Anger broke the seal Draco had just placed on his lips so carefully. “Oh, wouldn’t they? Potter, your precious Aurors can be as bad as any Death Eater I’ve ever encountered. It’s not like malevolence falls solely under Death Eater dominion. We do not have exclusivity on it.”

Potter slammed the table so hard Draco jumped. “No. They won’t. You’re lying.”

“I wish I was, I really do. If only I could tell myself it was all in my imagination... but it wasn't. The guards and Aurors in Azkaban were worse than Dementors, and that should mean something to you. The Dark Lord was evil, but he never did – “

“Are you fucking serious, Malfoy? comparing these men to Voldemort? The darkest wizard who ever lived, the one who killed hundreds of people? Fucking _Voldemort?”_

Draco shrugged one lazy shoulder. “He wasn’t the nicest guy, sure, but he was a kitten compared to the guard who ran my ward.”

Potter’s green eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

“You heard me,” Draco raised an eyebrow, too stunned with himself to be apologetic. “What, you think just because one man was trying to kill you since you were a baby, he gets dibs on everything dark? No. True, this guard wasn’t a raving megalomaniac with aspirations to rule the world, but when it comes to evil, they were absolutely on par. Which is worse, in a way, because he didn’t have the horrible snake-face and the red eyes to show it. He looked like a bloody normal person. I think it was around the third time he raped me that I started to really get the kind of man he was.”

There was a choking sound from the other side of the table, but Draco didn’t look at him anymore. He was staring at the wall resolutely, eyes transfixed to the wallpaper. It was a soft eggshell color, and several bumps and bubbles gave it texture. He noticed a small mark on it, approximately at shoulder-height. It was red. Oops. Perhaps he didn’t clean as well as he thought he had.

“The third time he…”

“That’s right, Potter. The third time he raped me.” Draco’s voice was very flat, and he was just as shocked as Potter to hear himself carry on. He had no idea why his lips were still moving besides perhaps the power of inertia. “Not that the first two were insignificant, but the third time was so cruel, I realized instantly what I was up against. You see, the Dark Lord never allowed rape. He seemed to think it was barbaric. I never thought I’d agree with any of his crazy ideas of right and wrong punishments, but that notion of his I totally support. It _is_ barbaric. I have been on both ends of the Cruciatus curse often enough to know what it’s like – it takes extreme talent, precision, time and absolute intention to make the effect last more than momentarily. Other than him, only Aunt Bella could do it, I believe, by the end of the first war. But the rape… was something else. It tends to sort of stick with you, or so I’ve heard.”

Now he returned his eyes to the man. Potter was gaping at him, shock and anger and a definite _something_ fused on his face. “You – I – “

“Before you have a stroke.” Draco huffed and covered his face with one shaky hand. This was getting dangerous. As if the stakes weren’t high enough. “I’m not saying _all_ the guards and _all_ the Aurors. It was a small number of men, and I believe they kept their more abhorrent actions quiet from the others. They didn’t do it to everyone, either. I was somewhat special on that regard. Being so well known and so young, I was something of a novelty. It was my misfortune to have stumbled into their grasp, and they took advantage of it." Merlin almighty, the tension was going to make him throw up. He couldn't bring himself to look at Potter's expression. "Listen, I - I’m not asking you to believe me, all right? It doesn’t really matter if you do or don’t. You wanted to know why, and now I told you. If my answer doesn’t fit what you wanted to hear, then... I don't know. You’re welcome to go and find yourself a new one.”

Draco had to physically stop himself from covering his mouth with both hands. He was mad, absolutely mad. This was sheer lunacy, one that would land him a bed in the Criminally Insane ward of St. Mungo’s instantly, if not sooner. How could he have let himself say all that? How could he be so bloody careless? Doesn’t he _know_ what will happen if Potter will dig deeper? Doesn’t he know what’s bloody coming?

The silence that struck between them after his last remark lingered, tense and cold. Potter took a deep breath, and Draco found that he had to see his face now, for he was beginning to feel the familiar dread throbbing, hot and barbed inside him. With all the uncommon lashing out he just exercised, he didn’t find it liberating. He found it terrifying. He wanted nothing more than to go to his rug and curl into a ball, never to reopen to the world again.

“If that’s true, then why didn’t you say anything?"

Draco didn’t answer at once, since he was physically unable to. Calm down now, he had to tell himself repeatedly. Take a deep breath. When he could once again breathe without making a terrible whizzy sound, he forced his lips into a bitter smile. “Do you honestly think someone would believe me over the words of the respectable guards of Azkaban? And even if they did – do you think they would care? I was nothing but Death Eater scum to them. It just was not worth the trouble. No, I did not fool myself to believe it for a second; I picked myself up and left. Somehow I got back to London, but there’s no chance I’m ever going to return to the wizarding world.” Gods, he really made a mess of it, didn’t he? Why can’t he ever just keep his mouth shut? Potter looked furious, and he was going to rain down hell on their heads until the very unfortunate and unavoidable end. Draco made himself draw another deep breath. “Look, you don’t have to take my word for it. Take it or leave it, means nothing to me. Now if you don’t mind, my head is killing me and I would like to lie down.”

He rubbed his temples. His head _was_ killing him; the pain ebbed behind his eyes and between his ears, and it was getting hard to bear. More importantly, it was absolutely imperative to get Potter out of this place instantly; apparently Draco could not control himself even to save his own life. He could not be trusted for a second longer. He'd already said so much more than he should have.

Potter got to his feet. “All right. I’ll… see myself out.” He left without saying anything more, and Draco was thankful for that. He remained at the table for another minute, rubbing his head and the occasional tear from his eyes. In his waking hours he did his best not to think of Azkaban, and the more recent horrors in his life did their fair share in averting his focus. But now, having spoken of it openly, he could feel it all again. For a second he was actually there, kneeling on the frozen floor of his cell, naked and broken.

The thought was too powerful to ignore; Draco wondered for one dark moment what exactly was so different about his life now. But then he cast that awful idea aside and shook himself. No, it was something else entirely. This was nothing like Azkaban, nothing at all like it. He had food and warmth and his rug to sleep on every night, the shop to go to every morning, the sunlight and the rain making direct contact with his skin. And there was more still – he had love, the only kind he was capable of, the only kind he deserved. And so it was very different, even if he wasn’t exactly _free_. The metal bracelet jangled as his arm moved and he let the sound lull him into an uneasy rest. He was so emotionally drained, he fell asleep before he realized it and crashed on the table and into nightmares that were almost as bad as the real thing.


	4. To Be Alone

Draco awoke to find himself at the table in a state of high panic. A quick look outside told him it was about nine. Why was He not back yet? He’d promised Draco not to be late. They did agree on some other things, though, so Draco dragged himself to the bedroom and lay on the bed, grateful he doesn’t have to kneel. After the swarming attack of memories he’d experienced, kneeling felt too cruel a punishment to be able to withstand at the moment.

For a second, Draco wondered if that was intentional. After all, He knew everything about Draco, all his worst recollections and fears. Even if Draco did not remember all the time, He did. What if the purpose of making Draco kneel every night until released was not strictly disciplinary, but a more elaborate scheme to keep him emotionally whipped? It was as likely as it was unimportant. What difference did it make, the meaning behind it? The cold fact was that every night for the past three years Draco had to come back to this flat and bloody kneel. Sometimes for mere minutes, sometimes for hours. Only too recently, for the whole fucking night. What kind of rubbish was that? What person in their right mind would do that to him, force him like that? Then he thought of Him and quietened. There was not only roughness and hate like in Azkaban. There was also warmth, and caring, and love. There was healing him when he needed it, and stroking his hair softly when he was on another brink of destruction, as he so often was. No, Draco could not doubt; he loved Him. Draco _needed_ to please Him to feel alive. Perhaps it wasn’t normal love, not like what other people have. Perhaps they wouldn’t understand it – he wasn’t sure he did all the time. Like most other things, it did not matter. The facts were there, and that was all.

The door to the bedroom opened around eleven at night, and Draco was still awake. He hung huge round eyes on the tall figure entering the room, then sitting next to him. “Draco, you’re up. I thought you will be sleeping.”

“I was. I woke up.” There was something building in his chest, a weird sort of pressure that would quickly liquify into sobs if he wasn’t careful. The stress must have been evident on his face, for a large hand cupped it and the other began stroking his hair. For some reason, this expression of affection only worsened the effect, and now Draco was dangerously close to breaking. Too close... he couldn’t stand it anymore, simply couldn’t. “Sir, please…”

There was no need to beg any further; within seconds He was on him, pushing him down heavily on the mattress. Being suffocated like this was the only way he could breathe, and Draco took in large, painstaking gulps. As loth as he was, he needed this touch, this warm skin on his, or he would dissolve into nothing. Right now in His hands Draco was still alive, but if He let go… It took no time before he was penetrated, so shockingly vulnerable and horribly dependent. Draco arched his back to let Him in deeper, sweating and heaving and writhing. The pain was exactly what he needed and he drove himself deeper into it, impaling himself on His presence in him, desperate to _feel_ …

“Draco,” he heard the soft grunt in his ear, and everything was falling into place inside him. This was where he belonged… this was what he deserved… he spread his legs even wider apart and pushed down, deeper, deeper, harder… The pain was all he knew, and the arms around him were more necessary than anything. Then He kissed him – slow, real, and for one glorious moment he was there, all there, held and cared for and maybe even understood. But when he closed his eyes he was back in the cell, and the body on top of his entirely different. Draco screamed, but a hand shot to his neck and he became quiet, whimpering slightly on the cold floor… on the warm mat… whimpering and moaning and groaning, faster, faster… It was almost as bad as he remembered, but still it wasn’t enough; he _needed_ , so much, so very much -

Perhaps his heart yearned for something else, but the trauma in Draco was more prominent, and for a second he couldn’t even see the dark brown eyes above him. Instead he saw a blue pair, cold and metallic, and terror so deep broke in him that he began to weep. “Please,” he whispered, completely lost in it. There was no shelter from the blue eyes, from the sharpness of their gaze – they can see him here, they can see! But he can’t let it happen – he can’t let them see – he _must_ let them see – “Please!” The light was dimming… blue eyes closed… grey eyes closed.

Something happened to his body, but he wasn’t exactly aware what. Dazed, Draco wondered if the thin screen of denial he cast between him and Azkaban that now shattered could ever be rebuilt. It was terrifying; he felt exposed, exposed and raw, and everything flashed before him in sickening detail. Father’s face the last time he saw him, pale and desolate… Mother screaming farewell behind the prison gate… Grove shoving himself inside Draco, fire in the blue of his eyes… then falling, falling, always falling… he wept until he was dried completely of tears, fidgeting endlessly where he lay, whimpering his impossible plea. It was terrible, too terrible, and nothing could ever take it away… he couldn’t let them take it away… he was doomed to stay in it forever…

It must have been hours, for when Draco suddenly came to it was nearly morning. _He_ lay beside him, asleep, and Draco could not for a second understand where he was. The terrible panic attack he succumbed to last night felt like a vague memory, and it wasn’t until a good few minutes later that Draco realized he had been spelled. Spelled to stop crying. Well, that was better than nothing… he checked within himself, trying to assess the situation. Was he stable? relatively. Was he going to shatter like that again? hard to say. The warmth of the body next to his was baffling, and all Draco wanted to do was to crawl under it again. He wanted to feel crushed by Him once more, to be forced back to existence by the grounding effect of His body on his. But to wake Him would be far more foolish than to wake a dragon, and Draco was an idiot, but not a fool. Therefore he stayed still, eyeing the ceiling and counting his breaths. It was a relaxation method He taught him. Right now it didn’t seem to work, though; he still felt shaky and clammy and nowhere near calm. Draco waited for the sky to get a shade lighter before he tip-toed out of the room and into the tub.

It was a difficult experience, this shower, but Draco emerged from it ten minutes later a victor. Now he was certain he could take it, whatever this day flings at him. Potter was away, and by the look on his face when he left, he wasn’t coming back. That was meant to make Draco feel better, but he couldn’t really care anymore. Thinking of Potter made him think about thinking of Azkaban, and that was way too much thinking for his taste. What he wanted was a clear mind. Completely blank. To consider nothing, to remember nothing, simply to exist. In this sense, having Him was absolutely brilliant – He could tell Draco what to do, where to go and when, and Draco could follow. Easy. All he needed to do was to obey orders and remember his place, and it will all be fine. _He_ will take care of it. Five stones lighter, Draco scrambled into an outfit and left for work, almost smiling.

David was in again, and Draco felt gracious enough to acknowledge his existence. “You dyed your hair,” he told him, and Draco nodded. It was keen of him to observe, after all. “That’s a very unique color, Draco. I must say it looks amazing on you. Although I liked you in black, too…” Draco smiled sweetly at him. He thanked David – first time he ever actually spoke to him – and took the flowers from his hands, no more interested. A small concern pulsed in him – in his original hair-color, without the glamour, he was far more recognizable. But then again, He did it, and Draco could trust Him. Casting the thought aside he returned to the flowers, arranging them in beautiful arrays designed to catch the eye. There weren’t a lot of roses in today, but the smell of lavender tickled his nostrils and made him sneeze. He was more certain than ever he was really allergic to bloody flowers.

The day passed by unremarkably. Perhaps the fact that Draco placed all his emotions behind a thick iron curtain had something to do with it, but he found himself nothing if not slightly bored. At least he wasn’t breaking apart anymore, crumbling to tiny pieces like last night. He couldn’t stand going through that again. An attack so severe was something quite rare for him – again, probably thanks to the iron curtain – and he was quite sure he would do anything in order to avoid having another one. Anything. He’d take the little anxieties of his daily life, and suffice with them. He did not need major, life-altering trauma on top of it. The present was challenging enough.

Although it was most definitely this major, life-altering trauma that pushed him here, Draco mused as he closed up the shop in the evening. Without it he would never have been vulnerable enough to end up where he did. Without it he would never have done what he – well, there was no point thinking about _that_ now, was there? It was taken care of. Potter was away and he will not wake any more demons. It was truly and completely over. Instead he thought of last night and how, in his desperate attempts to shield himself from the horrors in his mind, he lost his hold on reality. Like that dimwit Potter, he got caught up in the trope of fearing the things that existed only in the confines of his brain.

There was a small _pop_ as his hand already reached for the handle, and he turned immediately. The lights were off, but he didn’t need to see in order to know who it was. “Draco,” the low voice said, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. I must leave for some time. The presence of Potter puts us both in danger, and at the moment, I cannot stay here.”

“Sir, please,” he whispered, desperately shaking his head. Draco would be so lost without Him.

“I have no choice. My sole concern is keeping the two of us safe, and the only way to do so is to continue with what we have begun. Do you understand that?”

“But – Potter’s gone,” Draco said, pleading. “He won’t come back. He’s gone.”

“Do not fool yourself, he is never gone. He will come back, that much is certain. He won’t be gone if we do not take care of it ourselves.”

Draco swallowed a few times in a row, but there was still something catching in his throat. “Please, Sir. I can’t be alone. I beg you. Please.”

 _He_ came nearer, placing one hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, my Draco. You can do this. I have to travel abroad for some business, but I will be back soon to see your progress with him. I have every faith that you will not disappoint me.”

Draco’s breath hitched. _His_ Draco. If last night proved anything at all, it was precisely how much he needed to be His. Weak, pathetic, he shook under the warmth of His touch. “Sir… please…”

Incredibly softly He placed His forehead against Draco’s, who took this chance to inhale deeply. Gods, His scent. Draco would die for it. “I understand how you feel – truly, I do. Don’t forget I know you through and through. But it is unfortunately something that cannot be avoided, and you have to be strong, my love. You are mine, after all, are you not? Will you not be strong for me?”

“I will, Sir. I will be strong.” There was nothing else he could have said.

Two hands grabbed the back of his head and Draco closed his eyes. “Almost four years, was it, my Draco? Since you came to me?” Draco remembered this moment as if it was just this morning. Nothing could ever make him forget.

“I love you, Sir,” he whispered in a tight little voice. That earned him a kiss, deeper and hotter than the fires of hell. When it was done he was bruised and bleeding and happy.

“You are mine, Draco, no matter what happens or where we are. You always will be. When I am back we will be together again, and nothing will ever keep us apart then.” _He_ kissed him again, softer this time, and Draco gave in entirely. Merlin, to be kissed like that… his head was spun all the way around. Then the hands let him go and suddenly it was so cold that Draco actually shivered.

Keeping His eyes directly on him, He took a step back. “I love you, Draco. More than I ever thought possible, more than I even wished to. You are the single most important thing to me, do you understand that? I will do anything to protect you. Anything.”

The words drove right through his chest and into his soul and he couldn't breathe. Draco’s eyes never looked larger, the feeling in them never clearer. He was shaking uncontrollably now with gratefulness and grief and fear and cold. Everything felt off kilter. Draco closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

A soft kiss pressed against the top of his head. “Be good, Draco. You know what you are to do. You have my permission to take any measures necessary in order to achieve your goal – I give you full leave to do as you wish and as you need. Is that clear?”

Draco nodded again and raised hesitant eyes to meet the brown pair. For a second when they met he could see how full of emotion they were, and nearly fell over. It was all true - he knew it then, everything He’d said. _He_ really loved Draco, really cared for him. It was written in the little light lines in His eyes. Draco felt awed by this revelation, so unworthy. Above all else, he was His and His alone. And he wanted to show Him that, had to prove it before He goes away, had to give absolutely everything he had so that He might come back to him in the end. “Sir, before you go – can I – please – “ and He _knew_ what it means to Draco, how difficult it was for him to offer, how he was giving this as a gift, as a sign of his surrender, complete and total.

Receiving a nod of approval, Draco sank to his knees in front of the tall man, sending unsure hands to undo His zipper. Usually he didn’t take charge in situations like these, and it was frightening and more than a little overwhelming, to feel that he can do this to someone, to Him. Pulling down His underwear and seeing how hard He was – for Draco – his head swooned. Breathing harshly through his nose he took as much as he could into his mouth and began the motions he hadn’t done in a while. They were an instinct in him now, after everything – but he _wasn’t_ going to think about that. No, not at all. What he needed to do was to concentrate on the cock currently in his mouth alone, on the fiery love in the brown eyes he witnessed. To only think of this man, the man that held him, the man he loved. Not a thing more.

What was it about being on his knees that made him so damn introspective? Draco tried hard to keep on the task literally at hand, but it was swimming faster and faster away from him. Visions he fought hard to keep back were tugging at the iron screen. It was risky, and he was this close to coming undone, but he hadn’t even begun to express everything he wanted. _Focus, Draco_. Remember what you need to do, he told himself. To prove that he is His alone. To prove his devotion. So he sucked and licked and swiveled his tongue, telling himself he was reveling in the hands grasping his hair, in the low grunts of approval. Then it was over, and he swallowed the familiar result, feeling somehow like he’s overcome a challenge he wasn’t sure he could beat.

Draco was pulled up to his feet, and He cast a spell to clean his face from any residues. “My love,” He said, and there was such fondness in His tone Draco went limp. Falling onto the tall man, he wrapped his arms around Him in a desperate attempt at controlling himself. Draco didn’t much know if he’s allowed to or not, but if he didn’t hold Him right here and now as tight as possible he would literally die. From the lack of rebuke Draco deduced He didn’t mind, and He allowed Draco’s arms to entomb Him, holding Draco with the same fervor. “So long, then, my Draco. I shall return to you as soon as I can. I know you will do it for us, that you will vanquish this one obstacle in our way. I trust you.”

With that, He was gone. Draco didn’t even notice the sound of apparition, only the jagged hole His absence left in him. Draco felt alone and more exposed than ever before. The taste of His come was still on his lips and he had no idea how he felt about it. _I am alone_ , he told himself, and it was too terrifying to consider. _I am trusted_ , he tried, but it meant so very little in this dark and empty room. _I am loved_ , he thought weakly, but now on his own it was harder to accept. Who would love someone like him? Who could possibly? Draco was so utterly demolished, it was hard to even see the pieces of him scattered around. Who’d be able to see him? Well, Potter saw him. And He did, too. _He_ saw him, and He loved him, and it had to be true or it would kill Draco instantly. It absolutely had to be true. For if it wasn’t – if he wasn’t loved, wasn’t wanted – then he was nothing but alone. And that was more than just dangerous for him. It would be fucking catastrophic.

Somehow, he had no idea how, Draco managed to walk to the flat. It was very dark and he didn’t bother with turning on the light, sitting cautiously on the sofa. _He_ said Draco had leave, so surely it should be fine to be here, shouldn’t it? He sat in the dark and brooded over every time He made him suffer on purpose. It felt right, to be hurting himself like that by ruining the one thing he had. “This is what you always do,” he told himself out loud, then got a little startled with the whole 'speaking to oneself out loud' situation. He scoffed at himself and dabbed his sweaty forehead with a sleeve. Enough. There was enough to deal with without the torments of his own bloody mind.

The hours went by and he felt them physically on his skin. Every passing minute, the sense of all-purpose dread increased in his throat, and he had no idea what to do with it. He could not get rid of it for the world, and it ran dangerously close to where he kept the iron curtain. If that came crashing down now, he will be utter toast. And not the buttered kind. Or perhaps yes the buttered kind, buttered and with jam too, and then falling jam-side-first on a fluffy rug that just got cleaned. Draco let himself get carried away in his colorful imagery, grateful to have anything to think of that wasn’t simply doom. He had to be stronger now, because he was alone, and he would have to get used to that. He thought with alarm of the last time he found himself all alone. Then he thought with even greater alarm of the first time after that when he _wasn’t_ alone anymore. Umm, Draco? Iron curtain? He rubbed his eyes as if he can make the images disappear. He needs to extend the reach of his curtain, to cover everything up until now. Maybe up until two days ago, when things started crashing out of orbit and the world stopped making sense because of Potter. Bloody Potter. It was ridiculous.

Potter said Narcissa saved his life in the war. Draco didn’t know that. Or maybe he did, at some point, and just let himself forget because it was easier. During the time they spent in house-arrest before their trials, they didn’t speak of anything related to the war. Not of the Dark Lord, not of Lucius already rotting in Azkaban, not of the terrible things they have seen and have done. It was becoming quite clear by then that Draco will not be able to escape prison, not with the heavy sentences everyone was getting left and right. So they spoke about flowers and gardening and about how the changing of the seasons affected their plants. They talked about their favorite fruits and how wine tasted different when you’re sipping it on a lazy summer’s day in a garden in Provence. They spoke of light, frivolous things, as if they’ve lived light, frivolous lives, and Draco found it oddly comforting and infuriating at the same time. He wanted to shake her, to ask her everything, to _demand_ answers, but it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault, after all. Draco had made his own bed, and she wasn’t responsible for what he got for it. He couldn’t blame her.

Sometimes Draco blamed his father, but that was another futile thing to do. Lucius could not pay more than he already has, and Draco could no longer be mad at him. Even if he did ruin his son’s life in some ways, he ruined his own too, and he knew it all too well. If he was even still alive. The second Draco made it out of Azkaban he vowed never to look back, and he never once asked about his father. Overall he tended to believe he was dead. But see, what was he doing now, thinking about it again? No good. Back to something else. _Come on, Draco._

He found himself staring at the window, his mind empty and his stomach even more. With a sigh he got up and fixed himself a sandwich, still not turning the light on. It didn’t feel right, somehow, to sit under the warm lamps pretending everything was all right. For everything was very much not all right, and Draco knew it with every fiber of his being. He ate the sad sandwich – two slices of bread and nothing but a lettuce leaf inside, as a sort of a crude punishment for himself – sitting crouched on the floor in the dark. He felt better on the floor than on the sofa. It was more familiar, less frightening. And there was less of a chance he would fall.

In the end, it was late and he wanted to sleep. Or rather, thought that sleep is something he should do. Wasn’t that part of a normal person’s life? He so needed to feel like he was normal right now. He took himself to the bedroom almost by force, for it was the strangest feeling in the world to go in there alone. He was not allowed to do that. He was not _meant_ to do it. The phoenix in the hall knew that; it gave him a sharp-beaked, buttony-eyed sort of admonishing look that turned the contents of his stomach to ashes. There was a strong sense of wrong coming from the painting, and Draco could feel the gravity of the _forbidden_ in his gut. It was wrong, but then, the rules did change. They had to. Because now there was Harry Bloody Potter in the way, and Draco had to do something about it if he wanted things to go back to normal.

Gods, he _ached_ for things to go back to normal. Even if normal was bad and unforgiving, and ensured nothing but pain, it was still his normal. He was flailing as it is, always at risk of drowning, and he needed something to hold on to. Even something bad. The kneeling, the punishments, the pain. It didn’t matter. It was his life, and he needed it the same as it always was. He couldn’t deny to himself that he _wanted_ the pain. Not because he liked it, but because he didn’t recognize himself anymore without it. And so, if he wanted to bring Him back – if Draco wanted to get his life back – he had to do something about Harry Potter. Even if it means he has to slash himself open until nothing remains. Whatever it takes, he will do it, anything at all. Draco swallowed the largest lump in recorded history, and said it again to himself. _Whatever it takes_.

He pushed through the bedroom door and was still fairly surprised to find it unlocked. He gave the bed a long look, hesitation turning into fear turning into exhaustion. He was always doing this to himself, second-guessing, digging in the scabs till they reopened. Enough. Enough. He had enough of it already, and it’s not even been a full day. He gave the bed one last look, then placed himself curtly on the rug. There was only a certain amount of change he was willing to take at a time, and this was not the moment to experiment too much. Draco knew he’s only a hair width away from falling into the abyss of his own crazy. He wasn’t scared of it – he was terrified. In Draco’s mind, there was enough to keep him entrapped for eternity.

He rolled into a ball, squeezed his eyes shut and covered himself with the little blanket he kept under His bed. It felt very much like any other night, and so much unlike it. He wished it would all be over soon until he finally fell asleep. He dreamt of a rabbit caught in a trap, running in useless broken circles around a white-petaled flower, knowing all the while it was doomed.


	5. How Simple It Is to Fall Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the tags before reading - potential trigger warnings are abound. Including details of Draco's rape and abuse in the past.

The night lasted for literally ever, or at least that’s what Draco figured. The doze he fell into was abrupt, and he found himself awake again with no hope of getting any more sleep. Every single second ticked by slower than the previous, and he’d lost his patience about half an hour into his sleeping attempt. What the hell? He was not used to going to sleep on his own. He was not used to being alone in this room. A creature of habit if nothing else, Draco found this whole ordeal maddening. Not that he needed any help to get mad, thank you very much. The insane type of mad, for the record. Well, the angry type of mad, too. He was not above being angry with anything and everything in a hundred miles radius.

Ultimately, though, morning did come, for that’s just how these things work. Draco watched the sky getting lighter and hated everything about it. He was going to have to go through a whole day like this, and for what? He was fairly certain Potter will not come back. After what he’d told him… Potter would not forgive him for sullying the sacred profession of Aurors like that. Which was so silly, because Draco told him nothing but the truth, and spared him the gory details, too. In Azkaban, the Aurors were – no, not going to go there. It’s a fresh new day, Draco, he told himself sternly, and you’re not going to fall into the same self-destructive patterns. Chin up, for crying out loud. Keep it up now and just _don’t think about it_.

So in any case, Potter. Draco had no idea how he was meant to even find him, and when he did, to convince him he was telling the truth. Potter will never trust him if he thinks he lied about Azkaban, and He said to gain Potter’s trust. But how? Draco could not very well go into Diagon Alley to try and find Potter. No reason to start poking around looking for trouble, and trouble was a sure thing if he was to suddenly pop back up in the wizarding world, where he was typically considered to be pushing up daisies. Trouble that was very, er, troubling. And if there was one thing Draco was utterly certain about – beyond any other thing in the world, beyond even Him– the one thing he knew with absolute conviction was this: he will not go back to Azkaban alive.

He will not go dead, either. He will just not go back. Draco knew he will do whatever it takes to keep that from happening. And if he failed, for in the end, he almost always did, he was ready. At all times he carried the little vial with him, his most precious possession. He kept it always at hand. Now that he was on his own, it was up to him alone to make that decision. He was still unmitigatedly committed to Him, but if push comes to shove… he will not go back. Never.

Good, well, now that he had that covered, Draco had to start thinking rationally. _He_ said Potter will be back. But can Draco really trust the sodding git to actually do something right? Unlikely. Whatever it will be, though, he had to trust Him. There was no other light at the end of the tunnel, he’d learned that lesson well. But this thought was bordering on what he was stretching under the curtain’s domain, and so he stepped off it immediately. If Potter doesn’t come back, then that means he got rid of him, and He could return when His business is finished. If Potter does come – well – on his head be it.

Draco was very much not concerned about what will happen to Potter ( _there will not be a next time…)_. No, he wasn’t scared one bit. So what if the last time almost went horrifically bad? This whole situation was Potter’s own fault. He was the one who insisted to come into the flat and push himself into Draco’s life. He brought his own doom, and Draco had enough to worry about without him. So even if there was this niggling thought at the back of his mind, he did his best to ignore it. With the help of the iron curtain, Draco didn’t let himself feel anything, and so he left for the shop that damned morning without too much difficulty. He wore a simple white woolen jumper, the warmest he owned, then two more green ones of His for their scent alone, and wrapped himself tightly in a jacket and a scarf and a hat and gloves. He wasn’t going to be _ill_ on top of everything, and his stint in prison left him liable for afflictions. Waddling like a bloody penguin, it took Draco almost fifteen minutes to make the distance, and he was sweating slightly when he finally got there.

David didn’t do the flower delivery today. It was some woman he didn’t know who gave him the most ridiculous “come-hither” eyes he’d ever seen. He wanted to ask about David, because he craved any kind of familiarity, but that would go against his rule of never speaking to anyone who wasn’t a customer, and therefore was not permitted. Draco felt like he had to adhere to the rules especially closely today, when he was so out of sorts. The rules were there to give him structure, to keep him afloat. He thought of Him again and was washed by the saddest kind of longing he’d remembered experiencing. He pinched his arm, hard, to make sure he was still there.

Today of all days, when Draco was so desperate for interaction – nay, for a distraction – the shop was empty. Only about two customers came in a stretch of eight hours, and he was getting restless. He knew what expected him at the end of the day; a cold, empty flat, and the sole company of his thoughts. He kept looking at the door and hoping for someone to come in, anyone, but it didn’t happen. He wrapped his arms around himself and waited for the time to pass somehow. Even his pansy in the vase looked a little sad. Flowers need to be loved, wasn’t that the wretched company line? And when he was like this, not even complete by his own right, he could not give love to anything else. “Poor flower,” he said, but really what he meant was _poor Draco_. He found it a little strange to be feeling sorry for himself again. It had been years since he had the space of mind to do that.

Five o’clock arrived, and another fruitless day ended. Draco closed the shop and took the short walk home, again made longer by his cumbersome attire. He kept glancing behind his shoulder, trying to see if Potter was about, but no one followed him on the street. No one he could sense, at least. Without even the idea of Him about, Draco felt completely abandoned. He had only himself to count on, and that was a poor choice any given time. He wished with all his heart for the moment He came back and life will return to making sense.

The thought of Him only intensified once inside the empty flat. Draco hugged himself and squeezed the jumpers until it almost smelled like He was there. If he closed his eyes and concentrated very hard, Draco could pretend like he can see His shadow behind his eyelids, sitting as He normally would on the armchair. Gods, only twenty-four hours and already he missed Him so much it hurt. Only to have Him here, nearby – it didn’t even need to be for long, He didn’t have to say anything or even look at him, just to be there. Draco didn’t need more than that. It may not have been great sometimes, but it was all he had, and he used to be perfectly content in his imperfect little world.

Enter Potter. Why, why did it have to be him? Were it any other wizard in the country, Draco was certain they wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of coming back. They would see him, get the shock of their lives, and go away. Done deal. Perhaps a week later they would remember it in the shower, and have a thought along the lines of “hey, what was the deal with that Death-Eater bloke I saw the other day?” but nothing beyond that. Trust Draco’s luck that out of the whole bloody world, Potter would be the one to recognize him. And Potter just had to stick his nose in his business, same old same old. And now He was gone, and Draco had nothing, which was very dangerous indeed. He needed something to focus all his anxiety on, or he would become unraveled. Draco did not want to unravel. He wanted to stay raveled, please and thank you. He wanted to stay raveled very, very much.

All in all, it was shaping to be another disastrous evening. He sat on the carpet in the dark again, watching the cloudy city sky become more and more foggy. He wished for rain. Rain, or snow, or something, just not this bleary fog, flat and cold and uncaring. Sighing miserably he curled into a ball and prepared himself for one more night of total destruction.

That’s why he jumped nearly out of his skin when the bell rang. Then there was a rasp on the door, and Draco was genuinely frightened. In all his three years here, he never had any visitors. Sometimes He did, but now Draco was alone, and there was no way in hell he was going to try and deal with one of His guests. He put a hand over his heart, closed his eyes and willed for the person to just go away.

It didn’t happen. There was a knock on the door again, louder this time. Draco looked around him, hysteria making it hard to decide what to do. If they’re coming to take him, he would drink the poison. He’d have to. They knocked again, and Draco’s panic was building towers within him. Gods, what to do? What to do?

He thought he heard a muffled voice, but it took some time before he could understand what it said. “Malfoy, I know you’re in there. I cast a spell on the door, I can see there’s someone inside. Come on, open up. I need to talk to you.”

He nearly threw up with relief. _Potter_? What in the world… Shaking rather hard he opened the door. Potter stood there, fist in the air like he was just about to knock again. It felt a little like he was going to hit him, and for a second Draco wondered if he really would. He also wondered how he’d react to that. Would he fall on his knees and ask for forgiveness? Or perhaps for more?

“Er… can I come in?” Draco whipped himself out of his reverie. Potter was here, and he wanted to talk to him. As always, He was right. Draco stepped aside and allowed him in, staring with much suspicion. “Why were you in the dark?”

Stumbling to the light switch he turned it on, and suddenly the flat was filled by a warm orange glow. Draco closed the door after Potter, heart still beating at two-hundred miles per hour, then put his hands on his hips, panting a little. “What do you want?”

Potter looked back at him, flushed and very unhappy. His eyes were as red as his jumper, which was almost offensively bright. His hair was even shabbier than before, and he ran a hand through it distractedly. “I – wanted to talk to you. About… the stuff you’d said.”

Draco stared at him, disbelief and terror running full speed ahead in his gut. “What did you want to say?”

“I – is it all right if we sat down? I feel a little woozy.” Draco eyed him for a second, then gave a stiff nod. Potter tottered to the sofa, and Draco took the armchair, as far away from him as possible. Still in his mixture of emotions he felt since Potter first knocked, he realized there was also relief. Not to be alone, to have someone here with him. Even if that someone was Potter. Even if what he wanted is another go on Draco’s roller coaster of personal hell.

“Well? You said you wanted to talk. Talk.” He wasn’t about to tell Potter how glad he was to have him here, how grateful. Not even if it was the last thing he ever said.

“After our talk the other night I just couldn’t calm down. The things you said were so – I didn’t even know how to begin to process them. At first I told myself that you’re lying, that it was all untrue, but then… I mean, why would you make that up? What would you have to gain from that?”

Draco lowered his gaze to his knees, which for some reason looked a little blurry. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m a madman. Maybe I just like to lie.”

“Well, I considered that too, but then… Why would you abandon your family, everyone that you know and love, and come live here as a Muggle? It made no sense. So I dug a little deeper.”

Oh, Gods. Merlin, Mordred and Morgana, help him, _save him_. This cannot be happening, it can’t – they’ll come to take him away, they’ll come for him, and Draco is _never_ going back there alive… he somehow swallowed the entire Pygmy Puff that settled in his throat and grunted something like, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I didn’t really know what to make of most of it. And then I received the medical report of the day you got out, and I just…” Draco could feel Potter’s eyes on him like laser beams, hot and piercing. He could only barely keep himself from screaming. ”What the bloody hell, Malfoy? It was the worst thing I’ve ever even read. Every single part of you was destroyed. I got physically ill just reading the dry description.”

Oh, that. Draco forced himself to close his eyes and breathe for a full minute before he was able to answer in anything but a shriek. “Yes, I, er… I think I remember that.” It took another minute until he could concentrate enough to give an actually relevant reply. He tried to picture that day, and his anxiety took him there no bother; there he was, lying on the cot with the lime-green curtains all around him. He could almost, but not quite, smile. “I was told I fell from a great height. The Healers who treated me concluded it was an accident, and since most of the damage was fixed at St. Mungo’s, there was no official inquest.”

“And was it really? An accident? Just a fall?” Draco’s eyes opened and zoomed right to Potter’s face, lip curled in disgust.

“What do you think?”

“I…” Potter’s hands toyed absentmindedly with his jumper. “I didn’t think it was an accident, no. I don’t think a fall, even from a great height, would give you scars the same shape a Diffindo would. And it doesn’t even begin to explain other… symptoms you’ve had.”

Draco snorted with very little zeal. “Incredibly sharp on your part, Potter, but unfortunately that isn’t enough. Many inmates get beat up in prison. It doesn’t mean I told you the truth.”

Potter pursed his lips. “Are you saying you did lie?”

“No. I’m saying that if you came waltzing back in here because you hoped I’d put some order in your baffled little mind, then you are delirious. I don’t need to prove anything to you, Potter. You can choose on your own whether to believe me or not.” It was a foolish reaction, maybe, especially considering what he was trying to achieve, but Draco could not stand it. The things he went through in Azkaban were _his_ private purgatory, and for Potter to cast aspersions on them was intolerable. Besides… as long as he could bring the discussion away from – certain things he may or may not have done afterwards –

“It’s not that simple, Malfoy. What you’re saying is so awful, I can’t just accept it without hearing the facts. I need proof, or it’s just… or it’s just the delusions of a sad and war-traumatized ex-con.”

That stung more than it probably should have. Draco shot to his feet, his face tight and as white as a sheet. “Proof? You want to see proof? What would you like me to show you first, Potter? There is the lovely little scar from when I was playing washing-cloth to the guards’ collection of knives. Or the funny shaped burn I got when they set my organs on fire? Or perhaps would you like to see the signs on my arse, where fucking Gr – that guard – singed his name on my flesh?” by the end of that, Draco was practically shouting. He was close to unzipping his pants, his fury enough to drive him to expose himself, which would have been an utterly foolish thing to do considering the long years since Azkaban and the way they had changed him. In the end, though, he mastered himself and sat back down.

“These scars are not what matters, Potter. It is not the physical pain, however severe it may have been, that lingers with me still. You want to see proof, but… there's nothing I can show you that will be enough. When I came out of Azkaban I was – broken. Entirely. I thought I'll never get back up again.”

“And did you?” Potter asked almost in a whisper. Draco shrugged.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Most of the time I try not to think about it.”

“But Malfoy…” Potter seemed in even more agony than before. “If what you say is true, something must be done about it. Someone has to say something, to do something about it. They can’t just continue abusing people like that. It doesn’t work that way.”

Draco wanted to laugh, but he was so tired. “You’d be surprised how well it works. You want me to do something about it? When I left the gates of Azkaban behind me, I didn’t think I’d survive. The only reason I’m still alive is that I put it all way, way behind me.” He clasped his hands together so Potter wouldn’t see how bad they were shaking. “There’s nothing in the world that can make me go back there, Potter. Nothing. And if I learned anything from my time inside, it’s that resisting only leads to greater suffering. You can say I’m a coward, I don’t mind. I have no more power to fight. I was drained out of it, and it is now completely gone. And when I – “ then he stopped, realizing what he was about to say, and color grew hot on his face. He _cannot_ be talking about that to a practicing Auror. Luckily, Potter didn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t think you’re a coward, Malfoy. I don’t think you’re a coward at all. I think what’s happened to you – even if I don’t understand it completely – is just so…” he shook his head, unable to find the right words. “How did you pick yourself up in the end? How did you manage?”

Draco thought about it for a second. “I was pretty much forced to at some point. As a parolee I had to get a job and a place to live, or I’d be shipped right back. Since I didn’t have a knut to my name, I had to start working. After that it was… better. For some time, I thought that maybe I could really do it. That I could get past it. I just kept thinking that If I just never saw them again, if I could put them behind me, then maybe I did have a chance. I stopped obsessing about Azkaban all the time, I didn’t want to die anymore, I just wanted to have… I don’t know.” He had to bite his tongue three times before he could make it say things that were less bloody incriminating and more to the fucking point. “Escape. I wanted to escape. So I did. And now here we are.”

“So you left everything behind?”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” he said honestly, then reconsidered. “I mean, the state I was in… I wasn’t good for anyone. My mother grew sick with worry, stranded in France and unable to come back to England to help. My friends… well… I was a burden on them, the ones I had left, which wasn’t so many - you’ve seen Vince die yourself, Theo left the country, Greg hung himself... So it wasn’t so difficult to leave. And the alternative, living in constant fear that every little mistake would send me back – I couldn’t handle it anymore. I simply fled.”

Potter seemed like he was about to cry, which was highly unsettling to watch. “Malfoy, I… I’m so sorry.”

“You are? For what?” he was genuinely bemused.

“Everything. For everything that’s happened to you. For not having the slightest idea you’d been through so much, that you could be going through all that. And for not believing you when you first told me. I should have known you were telling the truth, I just really didn’t want to believe it. That the guards can be so…”

“It’s not just the guards who were _so_ ,” Draco said, inexplicably annoyed by this sincere apology. “You say you believe me now, then you have to believe it all, not just the parts that are easier for you to take. It was Aurors too, and if you deny it, you’re a bigger fool than I’d imagined.”

“I just can’t get that,” Potter said, anguish written all over his face. “People who dedicated their lives to fighting against the dark arts, acting like that. I can’t tell myself something like this is even possible without wanting to throw up. It’s inconceivable.”

“Is it?” Draco snorted. “You have to remember that in their eyes, especially after working in the prison for years , the inmates are no longer human beings. They’re animals, or worse, the very embodiment of evil. And as you said, they dedicated their lives to fighting it… You play for the Auror’s junior team in the Ministry’s league, don’t you?” Potter nodded, confounded at this line of questioning. “Ever met a man by the name of Rutgrass?”

Potter made his thinking face. “Sounds familiar, yeah. I think I’ve played him once or twice before. Why?”

Draco was an idiot for mentioning names, a thing he swore he'd never do in his life, but his big mouth had no regards for his safety, and he was too deep in the pit of his own anger to stop. “The next time you take a shower after a game with him, take a look. You’ll find he has a little birthmark on his right hip, just above his crotch, shaped somewhat like scissors. His cock leans a little to the right, and his pubic hair is the sickening color of an earwax flavored Bertie Bott’s bean. This man liked to keep me on my knees for hours at a time before making me suck his cock. That was how I learned all the charming details you can find in the Ministry’s locker room.”

Potter just stared at him, flabbergasted. It took him a full minute to recover. “He…”

“Yes. A real life Auror for you. Eleven years in the service when I was admitted in his ward. Out of them he spent six in Azkaban. He hated working with the dementors, said he was really shit at casting a Patronus, so he was very happy to see them go. Then I came along and made his work all the more rewarding. He used to have me memorize random facts for him, and give me pop quizzes when I was kneeling. Every wrong answer was another five seconds of Crucio. Somehow I seemed to get a lot of them wrong.”

Potter’s eyes were dangerously close to tears again. “Why? Why would he do that?”

Draco shrugged. “For fun, I guess. It was all very amusing to him. He’d sometimes quiz me till I passed out cold, or till I was in tears begging him to fuck me. Then he’d let me give him his bloody blowjob, and we could finally get on with our day. At least he wasn’t one of the guards who wanted me to apologize.”

There was a thick, loaded silence. “What about it did he find _amusing_?”

“Who the hell knows, Potter. I wouldn’t trouble myself with trying to understand their sense of humor. Many of the things they found amusing were enough to make me want to wash my eyes out with bleach. Not that I’ve never seen terrible things being done, not that I haven’t done them myself, but… I don’t know. Something about being cooped up on that island makes even them lose their grip. It’s a real greenhouse for psychopaths.”

The silence was longer this time. Potter broke it very hesitantly. “You said other guards made you apologize. What for?”

“Oh, a variety of things. Being a bloody Death Eater piece of shit, to begin with. Being a Malfoy. Having a prissy little mouth and an even prissier little arse. Being a filthy fucking whore. How I… do you really want to hear the full list, Potter? I can go down on my knees right now and give you a demonstration.” His tone was dark and perilous, and Potter seemed more horrified than he probably ever did in his life.

“I never – I could never imagine – fuck, Malfoy. Fuck it all to hell. I can’t believe that…”

That was it for him. Draco could _not_ take any more of this. “Of course. Why would you believe a useless Death Eater like me? You know what, Potter? This is the last thing I need. I thought when you came here, when you said you believed me – I thought it could be – “ he shook his head, too furious to continue. But he had to, because he was not done; a volcano of emotions was bubbling in his gut and the outburst was inevitable. Let the people of Pompeii be warned. “You should leave, right now. I am this close to doing something we both would regret dearly. Why did you have to come back here? I was fine before you came. I was _fine._ And now - now - just go. Get the _fuck_ out and don’t ever come back.”

Potter got to his feet and Draco did too. Potter’s hand was sent out in plea, and Draco’s was pointing at the door. “Malfoy, wait, please – “

“No. I am not interested in hearing a single thing more you have to say. Do you have any idea what you’ve already done to me? I was fine, and you’ve ruined everything. _Everything_. I can’t even breathe without thinking about it anymore. And it’s all thanks to you, so if you’d be so kind as to just _fucking leave already_!”

He was never in his life this close to physically hitting someone, not even the old tosser with the lilacs. Well, at least never in this life, the _after_ life. Draco had honestly thought he lost all powers to fight ever again. But there it was, pulsing in him like a second heart, like a beast ready to attack. And he wanted to attack. He wanted to do something as bad as what was gushing inside him, needed desperately to release the impossible mountain of hurt within.

Potter must have seen it in his eyes, since he didn’t argue. “All right. I’m leaving. I’m going, okay? But I just want you to know that – “

“OUT!” Draco hollered, the finger pointing at the door almost gauging a green eye out its socket. “Get OUT and never come back! The next time you show your sorry arse will be the fucking last thing you ever did!” he slammed the door after the stuttering young man and no longer than a second later was he on the floor, a writhing lump of unbelievable woe, crying hysterically and hitting the carpet with fists wet with the storm of his tears.

This panic attack was yet again different than the others. Draco didn’t know how to handle it, now that he was all alone, left on his own. He had no tools whatsoever, no mechanisms or methods that applied. What he needed was the warmth of another body crushing him, or the pain of something along the lines of an Unforgivable, but he couldn’t get either. He sent the only other living thing that knew his name to holy hell, and he was too far now to be of any help. And _He_ was nowhere to be found. No, he was all alone… all alone with this _rage_ inside him… Draco crawled into a tiny little ball on the floor, feeling pathetic and disgusting and as miserable as he ever had. He wanted to roar. He wanted to spread out huge black wings and breathe fire over the whole city. He wanted to scream, to shout so loud they’d hear him in Hogwarts and in Azkaban and in bloody Dubai. He wanted them all to know, and he wanted them all to pay for it. For what they’ve _done_ to him. What they reduced him into. He wanted to send out one terrible signal that would singlehandedly eradicate all forms of life on this planet. He wanted to kill… he wanted to hurt… he wanted to die.

The rage came up and down in waves, pulling him closer and farther away from the shore of safety. There was also sorrow there, horrible sorrow as he remembered what he had done. All those terrible things… the faces of the Dark Lord’s victims before they died… when Draco had to cast spell after spell on them and hear them yell… he remembered his own teacher from Hogwarts spinning above the table… and again he wanted to roar, but this time not because of his own pain, or perhaps it was in a sense. The things they forced him to do, the things they made him be…

Draco wanted to scream, but in reality he was barely even able to mutter. His breath was uneven and hysterical, and no matter how much he tried he just couldn’t get enough oxygen in his lungs. He inhaled again and again in shallow little pants, feeling the very fabric of reality slipping from underneath him. He was out at the sea of his own fury, of all of his injustices, big and small. He was swimming in it for his life, for a huge wave was coming, one that would soon cover all the horizon in darkness and he would have no way out. He was swimming, faster and faster, but it was already catching up to him and he could just feel it, every splash like a knife in his back, every drop burning his skin. He was swimming… swimming… drowning…

There was nothing to do now but completely give in to it. Like Draco had given in to Him, he did it because he had no other choice, and because it was the only thing he wanted. He didn’t _want_ to pull up for air anymore. He didn’t _want_ to be rescued. He wanted to be a miserable tiny little ball on the floor and have no one see him or talk to him ever again. He wanted to be left to suffer for all eternity because it was the only thing he knew how to do and a lot more than what he deserved. He wanted… he wanted to die. With trembling fingers he plucked the vial from inside the bracelet, for a moment just staring at the green potion. Draco stared, and as he pressed it to his lips, his heartbeat slowed down. The screaming noises in his ears died down and suddenly he could hear the city outside, the cars and the people. He closed his eyes, softly kissing the vial like he would a lover, too lost and too sad to do anything else. He lay there for a long time before he was able to open his eyes again.

It was all there when he did. The potion, green and bright, held tight in his hand. The flat, still lit from when he showed Potter in. The carpet all wet from his tears. The sofa where he didn’t dare sit. The corner where he’d kneel, forever in the hope it will be brief this time. Gods, Draco despised it all. He loathed every thread in the carpet, every inch of the coffee table. His body was stiff and sore, and it was a struggle to get it to move, but in the end he managed to get up to sitting. Still panting he dragged himself to his corner and somehow got himself up to his knees. He closed his eyes and put both hands in front of him like in a prayer.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thought in his heart, and it ached like he just crushed it in his fist. _I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry_.

He really was sorry. He was sorry for everything he’s done and for everything he’s seen. He was sorry for the person he became and for the person he used to be. He was sorry for this world, that had no chance but to be a brutal fucking place. He was sorry for the people, the same ones he so recently wanted to murder _en masse_ , who had to be so fucking atrocious. He was sorry for them all. And somehow, back on his knees where he felt he knows himself best, he thought he could maybe make up for it. Maybe if he suffered just the right amount, maybe if he hurt enough, he could get forgiveness. Not just for himself, but for everyone, the whole world. Everything would rise again from the smoldering ashes, like the phoenix in the painting, and it would be good again. Maybe that’s what he needs to be, the lightning rod, the scapegoat, and that was just his destiny. He found great solace in this thought, because at least it meant it wasn’t all for nothing. It didn’t just happen randomly, because he happened to be born who he was, because he happened to be where he went. No; this gave him a meaning, even if terribly bleak, even if one that wrenched his gut out every single day. Merlin, he was unraveling, just what he’d been afraid of. Draco buried his face in the crook of his arm and forced himself to breathe in deep and slow.

He knew it, he knew it will happen. Didn’t he beg Him not to leave? Didn’t he _say_ he can’t be left alone? Draco was just shocked sometimes that people could ignore his very correct observations. Sometimes it was something childish, like _that’s not fair_. Sometimes it was just common sense, like _you can’t possibly do that to another human being_. And sometimes it was outright astute. _He_ never should have left. _He_ should have listened to Draco and stayed here with him, help him get through this bloody tsunami. Wasn’t this a part of the deal? This whole fucked up relationship they had going? Wasn’t He meant to defend him, to take care of him?

Then Draco remembered His words. Didn’t He say he will do anything to protect Draco? he thought hard. What He said was always the irrefutable truth. If He said that, it must have been right. If so, then, was He doing it? Was He protecting Draco like promised? Draco mused over it for a second, but he was so exhausted, and there was no room left in him to doubt the only thing still certain in his life. Let it be true, then. Let it be true that Draco could still count on Him, that there was still something being done in order to save him. It had to have been true. After that night – when he thought everything was lost, when he thought he was done, after what he had done – didn’t He _promise_ Draco that, to love him, to take care of him? And promises were very important to Him.

He felt like he can breathe again when he reached that conclusion. If it was right, then that means he wasn’t really alone. And although he was physically alone, and although it was still somewhat hard to believe, Draco sank into this gratifying thought with the intensity of holding a lifeline. It was, in many ways, his lifeline. It was the thing separating him from total damnation. He let that thought stabilize him for a moment, then breathed in deep.

Now that he was somewhat relaxed, there was a creeping worry within him. Potter. The one thing Draco was meant to do, he was fairly certain he botched. What a stupid, stupid man he was. How could he let himself be so caught up in it, that he actually forgot his mission? Number one item on the list; gain Potter’s trust. Now that he screamed the man within an inch of his life, Potter was sure to stay away from him, as far as possible. Well, actually… that was also acceptable, was it not? If Potter stays away, there will be no more danger, and He will come back. Something in his stomach that was tight and wrought before unclenched, and he felt a little lighter. It was good to imagine this will all be over with soon.

With a yawn and a stretch, Draco began to realize he wasn’t shaking anymore. He remained on his knees for approximately ten more minutes, just to be safe, then gingerly got up and tested his legs. They were operative, thank Circe. Draco dragged his tired body to the kitchen, where he forced a slice of dry bread into his mouth and gulped an entire glass of water. Then, too tired to even think, he threw himself on his rug and was asleep before his eyes were all the way shut.


	6. Dutch Courage

Draco was fairly surprised to find it was already morning when he opened his eyes. It felt like he slept no more than an hour, two tops. He was still exceedingly tired and for a moment considered never opening up the shop at all, just staying here and sleeping the day off. He yawned languorosly and rubbed his eyes.

Then recollections of last night swam up his stream of consciousness, and he floundered for a second, mortified and ashamed. To have gotten to such a state, not even two days into being left on his own… the old Draco Malfoy would not approve. Well, the old Draco Malfoy was dead, he thought to himself with annoyance and pushed up to a sitting position. It did not matter what _he_ thought anymore, the sodding arse. _he_ didn’t know right from wrong and left from right. _he_ was the reason _I’m_ here. All that thinking got him miffed enough with himself to get up and even eat a slice of dry toast before taking a shower. He wasn’t hungry in the least, but knew he must eat if he doesn’t want to get ill. And he didn’t want to get ill - his body simply couldn’t handle any sort of disease these days, and he didn’t dare risk it. He couldn’t die _now,_ not when he finally had something to live for. Certain that He would come back imminently now that Potter was successfully removed, he showered and got dressed in a relatively chipper spirit. The walk to the shop only took ten minutes, despite the fact he was wearing all the outfits he possessed, and Draco even made it in time to get the bins out before collection. He was as happy as he could be, which was to say, mildly somber. Soon He will be back, because He must, and the nightmare will finally end.

David was missing again today. It was a different woman this time, a girl younger than him, pretty with big brown eyes and a bright smile. He didn’t want pretty, though. He wanted familiar. Draco was tempted to ask when would David be back, but by the time he gathered enough courage she had him sign the paperwork and disappeared. Disappointed, but also relieved, he watched the van go from behind the glass door. Sometimes he wished he could go like that too somewhere. It didn’t matter where. Just to go.

Clearing his throat, Draco set around to fixing the shop. There weren’t many things to do, since almost no flowers were sold yesterday, so by the time the first customer came in he was already extremely bored.

It was a young man, hesitant and shy, all but hiding under the lapel of his oversized jacket. He had a pockmarked face, but his eyes were round and clear, and Draco was immediately hit with a warm surge of affection towards him. Sure, it might have been because he was another human being and he was looking right at Draco, but it didn’t matter. At this point in time, he would die for this man. Well, maybe not die, because of the aforementioned _not-wanting-to-die-ness_ of it all, but he would take a hit for him for sure. “What can I do you for?” he asked, hating himself only a tiny little bit.

“Oh, er, hi. I was – do you happen to have any, er… any violets?”

Draco beamed at him, because all gods be damned, he was a _person_. Draco needed to feel like a _person_ so much it was sickening. “But of course.”

“Oh, eh. Good.” He seemed physically unable to continue. Draco, with an uncommon gush of goodwill, decided to help.

“You want to buy some violets. Might I suggest this bouquet? It’s bound to attract the attention of whomever you wish to impress. Not too serious, playful enough, but beautifully candid.” Draco did that thing with his eyebrows that usually meant the customer was going to agree. It worked on the young man too, naturally.

“That – yeah, that sounds good. I was hoping it would impress a, um… a man in my office. Gabriel. He’s, like, the most incredible man you’ve ever met – not that you’ve met him, or anything.” Draco wasn’t new to the flower business, and he’d seen enough to know what he was dealing with. A young man on the quest for love - usually, he treated this sort of customer with professional cool, disinterested and frankly a little annoyed. Today, though, he was in no such mood. Draco could stand here chatting to this lovely man all day long if he had his way.

“Is that so? And what is so incredible about your Gabriel?”

The blush on his cheeks distracted the eye from the pockmarks, and the young man – boy? – looked even more fetching. “Oh, absolutely everything. He’s brilliant. He’s so smart, he’s been in the office for like three years already and he knows just about everything. And he’s so funny, everybody’s always laughing their arses off around him. He’s the nicest, too, always helping and – “ the blush deepened, and Draco was practically ecstatic. “Well, erm. I just wanted to… make him notice me. He doesn’t really know my name yet.”

“What is your name?” Draco inquired in a way he hoped was polite. It was a little unbecoming to care so much for a stranger whom he met literally two minutes ago, and whose name he didn’t even know.

“Oh, I’m Daniel. Nice to meet you.” the boy – Daniel – gave him the single sweetest smile on the face of the planet, and Draco would bet a hundred galleons he most certainly did not have on that fact.

“It’s my pleasure. Well, Daniel, I’m sure your office paramour will not stay indifferent to this gorgeous bouquet. From my experience, no one does.” Just to be extra sure, Draco smiled into the flowers until they were even brighter than before. He didn’t often use his magic, which was shaky and ragged and out of his control even if he did have a wand. But for this man, this true and dear friend, he was damned if he will not do his very best. The wandless spell seemed to work this time, which might have been a fluke, or a true sign of how bloody insane he was getting.

“Cheers!” the only thing brighter than the flowers was Daniel’s grin, and Draco took a second to calm himself down. “It does look great. How much will it be? I don’t, er, have so much on me.” He went back to shy, and Draco was confused for a second, because he felt a huge tug in his chest when the smile disappeared. He made a rough estimate.

“How about – fifteen pounds?” this type of bouquet usually went for thirty, but Daniel’s grin returned.

“Perfect, that’s exactly what I have!” he handed Draco the notes and took the flowers from his hands. “Oh, I hope he will like them! I hope I won’t make a total prat of myself!”

“It will be fine,” Draco reassured him, and was gratified to see the light of confidence shining again in those perfectly blue eyes. Eyes which did not, under any circumstance, remind him of _another_ pair of blue eyes. Which were also incidentally clear and round. Draco shoved the memory back to the hellhole from whence it came and returned his focus to the present. “Grove – I mean, Gabriel will love them. Guaranteed. If not, you can come and get your money back.”

Daniel thanked him again, dazzled him once more with his smile, and then – too soon – he was gone. Draco thought about his till and how it’s going to be such a mess, he will have to spend a whole week on his knees. But that made him think of Him, which made his stomach hurt with pining and fear and so he put a quick stop to it and forced his mind back to Daniel. Oh, young men and their powerful and charismatic lovers. Sure, everything was coming up roses for Daniel now. Gabriel would take to him instantly – how could he not? And they would have a brilliant romance. Walking hand in hand in a sunlit London street (Draco didn’t bother much with reality at the moment, and he felt quite comfortable with his oxymoron), picnics in the park, sweet kisses and caresses… his heart ached. Literally ached. Like a muscle overworked that became strained, only in his chest, and it was hopeless. He was hopeless. Only the second day on his own. He wondered if there would be a third before he blew his own brains off.

Draco knew about guns – He told him all about them. Such a riddle that man was; for someone who spoke so much about life and healing, He was fascinated by death to an extent that was genuinely frightening. Raised by Muggles, or so Draco figured from the very little He’d told him, He knew all about the extravagant ways they invented to off one other. Draco heard about guns and cannons, lances and bombs, landmines and tanks. To be honest, it made him a little ill. There was a spark in the dark of His eyes that lit when they discussed it, and Draco didn’t like it at all. It’s not like he needed a reminder that He was a – well – that He was drawn to that type of thing. Draco knew he had every reason to be afraid. It was just that besides fucking terrifying, He was also his whole life, and so it hardly mattered. Draco loved Him with all of his heart. Fear was constrained in second place, down there in his gut, and could not compete. He knew the truth, which was above all else; there could never be anyone who would know Draco the way He does and still care for him.

It was nearing closing time, and Draco was just trimming some flowers when he heard the door open but saw no one coming in. He was baffled at first, but then as he caught on he became so furious that he chopped a poor sunflower’s head right off. “What the bloody hell do _you_ want?”

Potter emerged from underneath his wretched cloak and put up a hand. “Please just hear me out.”

“No,” Draco snarled, scissors shaking in his hand. Bloody _fuck_. Just about the last thing he can handle right now was a rehash of last night. 

“Please, Malfoy. Just one thing and I’ll go if you want, I promise.”

“No,” Draco snarled yet again. “I will not give you the time of day, Potter. I’ve told you last night not to come back, and I meant it. Let me add another piece of warning. If you do not go away at once and never force me to see your dismal face again, you will find yourself incredibly sorry.”

“Malfoy, come on. One thing. Just one.”

“I have no wish to hear you question my most painful memories any further, Potter. Even I reach my limit sometimes. You’ve done enough as it is, and once again I am forced to emphasize how unclever it would be for you to pursue this.”

“Please. I mean it, Malfoy, it’s really just this one thing. I will be out of your hair forever after that, I swear.” Draco bit his lower lip. Can he trust Potter to make good on his word? He hasn’t until now.

“Fine,” he growled, thinking it would be best to just get it over with. “What is it, then? Came to tell me that Aurors are all perfect little puppy dogs and that the only thing that’s ever abused me was my own overactive imagination?”

“Not at all. Listen, Malfoy, you misunderstood me last night. When you told me about Rutgrass, I admit I was struggling a little with it. But not because I didn’t believe what you’d said. The thing I couldn’t bring myself to believe was how can someone be so… how they can do something like that to another man. That’s what I was finding hard to digest. I do believe you, Malfoy. I really do.”

For a second, he had no idea what to say in response. “You… do?”

“Of course I do. I should have from the moment you first said it, but I let my own illusions get in the way. Being an Auror, knowing the people, it’s hard sometimes to accept something like this can ever happen. But anyone can be driven towards evil, no matter what their position is. Sometimes it happens to Aurors too. And I’m just so, so sorry you had to experience that for yourself. I really am sorry.”

Draco’s eye narrowed as he squinted at Potter. He looked ridiculous in an orange jumper that was basically a Halloween pumpkin carved into clothing. “You are?”

“I am. Really. And I am so sorry for doubting you, for forcing you to tell me all those horrible things. I should never have done that. You’ve been through enough without me prodding in it and it was just… very wrong of me. I regret if my actions caused your trauma to resurface. I mean, I do regret that they have. It was really not what I aimed for and I’m so very sorry.”

Draco chocked a little over something invisible in throat. To hear Potter apologize for being insensitive was like hearing a Bludger apologize for smashing your nose. He sighed. “It wasn’t all your fault. I should have kept back, not rise to your bait. I lashed out on you as if it was your fault that it ever happened, when in fact it was every bit my own. So I guess I’m sorry too.”

Potter’s eyes were soft in the low evening light. “It wasn’t your fault either, Malfoy.”

“It was my own actions that brought me to Azkaban in the first place,” he shrugged, but Potter shook his head.

“You were sentenced for prison, not for torture and rape. Anything that happened within the walls of Azkaban was not your fault. I hope you know that.”

For some reason he couldn’t quite catch, Draco was pissed off to hear that. “Don’t think you know anything about what’s going on in there, Potter. I don’t need you patronizing me. I know full well what was my fault and what wasn’t.” Although, if he was being honest, the years _may_ have blurred the lines a bit.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I just… they were being absolute monsters, and it wasn’t because of you or anything that you did. _They_ abused _their_ power, and they are the ones who should pay for that.”

Again with the patronizing. It may have been something Draco needed to hear, longed to hear, yet it was hard to accept. “I suppose… wait, what do you mean, the ones who should pay?”

“They need to be put to trial, Malfoy. Every guard or Auror that's ever hurt an inmate - they can’t be allowed to continue like that. Even just with the things you told me they did… they shouldn’t get to just go on as they were.”

Draco could actually feel his heart slowing down to a full stop. Gods. Why was this happening to him? Panic surged hot and jagged in his veins. “Potter, you can do absolutely nothing about it. Nothing. Do you understand me? I will not play along. I will not be your sacrificial lamb. I will not go fucking near that place or those people ever again - never, ever again."

Potter looked anxious. “I understand. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. We’ll launch our own investigation, find others who are willing to testify.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco panted. His mind was a continuous loop of _no, no, no…_ “If you start doing that, it will all come crashing back to me in the end, and I won’t have it. I told you, I was... a special case. They're going to know it was me. They will know and they will come for me and Merlin, you can't do that. I won't let you do that.”

“What do you mean, you were special? How would they know?”

“I mean that what they did to me was – no, actually, I mean that fuck you, Potter, and that you are not going to go ahead with this, you are _not_.” He saw the green eyes were not yet convinced, and pulled his own hair in exasperation. He can’t let him do this, can’t let him near the guards of Azkaban, can’t let him understand… “I will die before I let you do that. Literally die. Do you see this?” he extracted the vial from the bracelet and shook it a little under the light. “This is poison I carry with me always. One drop and I’ll be dead before you can even say St. Mungo’s. If you don’t drop this right now I will kill myself, and you will have to live with the fact it was all your bloody fault. I hope you know I'm serious. I am not going back there for _anything_.”

Potter eyed the potion warily for a minute. “Where did you get that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco answered flatly. “Do we have an understanding? Will you leave this whole thing right now, or do I have to kill myself in front of your very eyes?”

“No,” Potter sent out one hand, alarmed. “No, you don’t need to do that.”

“I can see your other hand going for your wand. I’ll have you know the vial is uncharmable. You cannot summon or levitate it, you can’t break it and you can’t physically remove it from my hand. It is spelled against all that. Test me, and I will show you. I don’t particularly want to die today, but I will do it just to spite you.”

Potter mulled the matter over for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said in the end in a dark tone. “I will drop it. I won’t do anything about those arseholes, and they will keep on raping people and destroying more lives. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t you dare play that card with me,” Draco snapped, poking the large scissors in the air towards him. “I think I’ve earned the right to say when I’ve bloody had enough. Their other victims are not my responsibility, and I will not carry them on my shoulders. I have a lot on as it is, and I am not half as sorry for the others as I am shit-scared for myself. I told you they were different towards me. No – you can’t do it, I will not let you.”

“I’m sorry, Malfoy, that was a cheap shot. Of course they’re not your responsibility. I’m sorry.” Potter scratched his head, looking helpless and flustered. “Hey, you’re going to close soon, right?”

Draco stared at him. “Why? Do you need more flowers?”

“No, no. I just thought… if you wanted… do you want to maybe go for a beer? We can talk a little more. I prefer to do it in a place where you’re not throwing these huge scissors in every direction. I can try to be less of a twat, and I promise not to ask about anything you don’t want to talk about.”

Draco had every intention of telling him no in a very colorful way. He wanted to explain to him in detail just where he could shove those scissors. Then he thought about the empty flat, the long evening ahead of self-loathing that still stood in front of him, and quickly changed his mind. Even suffering this tosser’s company will not be as bad as being alone. True that up until now, Potter has managed to bring forth some of the worst panic attacks Draco has ever experienced, but still he was a living breathing human being and Draco was desperate. A real person. Looking at him.

“All right. We can go to a Muggle pub and you can buy me a beer. One beer, and that will be all. After that you will never come back here and I will never lay eyes on you again.”

Potter smiled wanly. “Whatever you want. I’ll let you finish up in here, then?”

Draco gave him a suspicious nod, then caved. “You can wait in the back room if you want. It’s too damn cold outside.” Potter retired to the back, leaving Draco to wonder just what kind of an idiot he really was. Potter, Potter, that pesky little Potter, always coming when he didn’t need him, didn’t want him… But Potter who was real and who was here… how tormentingly baffling. Draco closed the shop in a very distracted state of mind and as quickly as he could. It was incredibly stressful to know there was someone in the store with him, and it being Potter only made it worse. At five o’clock he’d already finished everything and went to collect the man who was practically bent double on the sofa.

Potter stretched miserably. “This is very uncomfortable.”

Draco was not in the mood for an attack on his choice of furniture. “It’s a good thing you don’t have to sleep on it, then.”

“Why, do you?”

What an idiotic thing to say. “Of course not.” He slept on a rug, for goodness sake. He shook his head exasperatedly at Potter. “Can we go now?”

“Say, what’s that?” Draco’s eyes struggled for a second in the semi-darkness to see what he was pointing at: a plastic casing around white flowers on a tiny stand in the corner.

“Oh, the flowers? That’s thorn apple. An old healing plant." Potter still stared at it, showing no signs of moving. Draco sighed, fishing for whatever else he knew about the plant. "Back in the days of witch hunts, having this in your garden was cause enough to have you burned at the stake.”

“So you keep it here as a… lighthearted reminder?”

Draco felt like he could almost smirk. “No, you prat. It's a very useful plant for healing and regeneration extracts, and it needs darkness to grow the petals. Do you want a lecture right now, or do you want a pint?”

“Definitely a pint.” Potter hurried to his feet and they made their way out of the shop in a very tight silence.

It was a freezing February night, and their breaths condensed into little puffs of dragon’s smoke. Infuriatingly enough, Potter seemed to know the area somehow, and he guided them towards a pub Draco has seen before but never from the inside. It was a stuffy, local place, the sort that was usually filled with smelly old men who smoked and shouted too much at the little shiny screen thingy Draco has never learned to like. Potter let Draco get them a table while he went to the bar and brought back two pints of lager. Draco preferred wine, if anything, but he took it off his hands anyway and sipped. It's been a long time since he had anything alcoholic. Damn, probably more than four years since he last had a drink. He closed his eyes, relishing the warm glow of fuzziness that spread inside him immediately. He hardly ate anything today, and not having drank for so long, Draco knew he will get absolutely sloshed in no time. There was something very exciting about the possibility.

“So…” Potter looked like he was floundering for conversation topics, and Draco let him struggle for a moment before pitching in. It felt good to see him have the short end of the stick in the conversation for a change. But then his face grew far too unhappy, and Draco couldn’t stand it anymore.

“So you’re a fully trained Auror now, I take it? Congratulations. When I got out of prison, you were still only in training.”

Potter nodded. “Yeah, I finished three years ago. I love it, it’s the best job in the world. Well, usually. This week I’m a bit less passionate about it.” his eyes were a little misty, and Draco felt a pang of unexpected sympathy towards him.

“Don’t let it get you down, Potter. As I said before, it’s not all Aurors. Some of them are good, respectable men, even if they do hate my guts. They were usually the more decent people in there.” He shivered a little when he said that. Didn’t he decide he was not going to think about Azkaban anymore? Gods fucking damn it.

“Thanks. I guess I know that, it’s just… never mind, we don’t need to get into that now. So yeah, I get to duel people and investigate and it’s a lot like what I did at school, only far easier.” Draco had to smirk at that.

“Being an Auror is easier than being a student?”

“Oh, with the school life I’ve had, it’s no competition. Especially since we had Hagrid as a teacher. I never had to face anything that could beat a Blast-Ended Skrewt.” Draco found it hard to contain the liquid in his mouth.

“Hell, I forgot all about them. Do you remember when they grew those little… yuck. Thanks a lot, Potter. Now I’ll have nightmares for days.” In all honesty, dreaming about Blast-Ended Skrewts would be a considerable improvement to his usual nightmares, but no matter. He enjoyed chiding Potter.

“They really were something else, weren’t they? So anyway, after all that, not to mention how every summer this insane dark wizard tried to kill me… and yeah, I’d say my career has been a piece of cake until now.” He beamed at Draco, who had difficulties not to grin back. Having someone smile at him was his weakness. He would kill for a smile. Well, maybe not kill, but definitely maim.

“I suppose you and Weasley are having a blast driving the older Aurors barking mad.”

Potter nodded gravely. “They don’t, er, appreciate all of our methods. And they say they’ve never seen anyone write worse reports than me in a while, if you don’t count Ron. But overall they are pretty nice.”

“I can imagine your reports would make Granger cry if she saw them.” Draco fidgeted in his seat a little thinking about her. Before his trial, she made several attempts to help him, coming to the Manor armed to the teeth with books of wizarding law. He was certain it was Potter who put her up to it. He refused to get any help from her, and insisted instead she focused all her time on helping his mother. He was a lost cause anyway, she still had hope. In the end, it did work.

“Oh, I’m sure she isn’t happy. She still makes Ron bring them home for inspection sometimes when he gets a big case. She can be very bossy, you know.”

Draco swallowed hard. “Listen, Potter. I don’t know if I’ve ever thanked you for sending her to us back when… back then. I know the motion she filed for my mother tipped the scales entirely. I’ve expressed my gratitude to her, by letter at least, but I never told you how much it meant to me. knowing my mother won’t be joining me in Azkaban was… I was incredibly grateful.”

Potter looked very uncomfortable for a moment. “It was her own idea. I just told her how Narcissa saved my life, and well, she remembered how you refused to say it was us back in the Manor. So she wanted to do something for you. She said the way the courts were handling the end of the war was terrible.”

“You can say that again,” Draco murmured and downed the rest of his beer. For some reason it made him speak, which was odd, since alcohol never used to betray him in that manner. “Their way of dealing with the overload was simply throwing everyone in prison without refrain. So much easier to ignore the problem when it’s wasting away in a cell far enough from the eye.”

“Well, it was a difficult time for everyone. So many dead, so many missing or injured. There was a lot to deal with and very little manpower to do it. They had to fix a broken community while trying to start the entire Ministry back from practically scratch.”

Draco glared at him. “And that justifies tossing people behind bars without the privilege of appeal? without allowing them fair representation? Without taking into consideration their age, their medical condition, the bloody circumstances?”

“No, but… well… no. You’re right. They should have dealt with it better.” Potter stared down his glass morosely. “They really fucked everything up, haven't they? The people who were supposed to be adults. The people we trusted to make the right choices.”

“Depends what you mean. It worked out well enough on your case, didn’t it? They made the right choice with you.” It was so much easier, and such a good change of pace, to talk about Potter and not about himself.

“I guess,” Potter said, but he sounded unsure. “I just think sometimes how much easier it could have been. How if I was better trained, or was allowed to receive some god damn help, less people would’ve had to die. It’s just so unfair.” Draco recognized the grief in his eyes. He’s felt it every single day since then, too. Merlin, the last thing he needed to do right now was to ease bloody _Potter’s_ guilt, but he was powerless against it. To see someone suffering in this shabby state he was in could do nothing but evoke deep, furious sadness in him.

“It’s not on you, their deaths. You did everything you could. Merlin’s pants, you were just a child.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Potter shook his head. “I was a child. And you were just a child too, and what fucking choice did you have? I knew nothing about life, nothing at all. I was given all this power, all this responsibility, but I knew nothing. None of us did.”

Draco shrugged. “I wouldn’t say you knew nothing. You knew enough to defeat him in the end, and you were good enough to save people even when they didn’t really deserve it.” He lowered his eyes to the table and fumbled a little with his glass. “You were just there. Sometimes it’s not about being good enough or even right, there’s not always a reason. It doesn’t all work neatly like that. You had what they needed, and they used you for it. I’m sorry to be saying this, but you’re not really special on that account. You were just far too kind not to resent them for it.”

Potter’s hand ran through his hair absently. “I did for a while, resent them. When I looked at all the dead. Colin, Lupin and Tonks… Fred… I couldn’t take it, you know? I was walking around not even sure what I'm doing most of the time. I had no idea how to bloody move on. I was a right mess.”

“How did you do it, then? Move on?” Draco tried not to let his interest show too much. Perhaps Golden Boy has something that can help him, too.

“I don’t really know. Tried to focus on the good things, on what I could do instead of what I should have done. I had people around who supported me, you know? That I could rely on. I think that was the most important part.”

Oh, of course. Draco frowned. “I think I need another beer.”

“Coming right up,” Potter said, already out of his chair. Draco considered offering to get the next round, but Potter was probably filthy rich and Draco only had a tenner he took from the till on him. He wasn’t meant to have his own money. But then, things changed, didn’t they? He played with the note in his hands until he got used to the feeling of it.

Potter returned with two full glasses. “Cheers.”

His brows furrowed as he gulped. Draco watched him drink the dark liquid as if it was the only thing that could save him now, and decided he did like Potter after all. His emotions regarding the man altered every time he thought about him. The Savior of the Free World had a little bit of a dark side, which was a very pleasant revelation. Not to mention he was very much a person… Draco must have been affected by the drink already, for he suddenly thought of asking something he really, really shouldn’t.

“Potter,” he apparently decided to go for it, “the other day you said something about my mother. You said that if you met her now you wouldn’t know what to say to her about me. Does that mean… can I take it to mean she is back in the country for good?”

There was a feeling in the green eyes Draco couldn't exactly tell. “Yes. She came back sometime last year, I think. The Ministry decided to allow her to return without seizing the European accounts after all.”

Something hard squashed his internal organs to bits. “Where does she live?”

“Somewhere in the country. I only read she rented a cottage and that she lives alone. She was on the papers quite a bit when she got back, but not so much now. I think people got used to the fact there is a Malfoy in England again.”

“Alone? She didn’t remarry?” Draco didn’t really expect her to, but still, to imagine her all by herself… whatever it was in his stomach crushed his intestines to dust.

“I don’t think so. You know she came to the funeral, yeah?”

Draco nodded. “I saw the picture. The article said she got special leave to attend it. So bloody gracious of them, allowing a mother in mourning to see her son being buried.”

Potter still looked at him with those huge green eyes. “Why won’t you tell her, Malfoy? I’m sure your mother can keep a secret. She won’t tell anyone else. But she’s your mother… she deserves to know.”

Draco felt such a pang of longing in his heart he nearly cried out. This was too much. He can’t afford to break down in front of Potter. “I already told you, no. I really don’t want to talk about it.” When it seemed like the man was about to protest he added, “You promised not to ask. If I didn’t want to discuss something.”

Potter took a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” There was the awkward silence between them Draco was beginning to miss. He let it linger for some time before making an effort to break it.

“So what about Granger, then? Where did she end up? Magical law as the attorney of the damned?”

“No, actually, she works in the Magical Relations department in the Ministry. She does something top secret. At least that’s what I understand when she does talk about work. I just know that they worship the ground she walks on, which is the right sort of thing for them to do, since she is the smartest witch there.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Draco said, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I don’t think she could go anywhere and not be the smartest witch in the place. It would ruin her, for one.”

Potter laughed. “She is pretty used to it, I’m sure. But no, she’s doing all right. Trying to fix the Ministry from within, I reckon. She was so upset about what was going on after the war… she cried at your funeral, you know.” He added the last comment in a very matter-of-fact kind of tone. Draco wondered what reaction he was meant to give to _that_.

“Oh,” was the best he could do. The beer cloud in his head wasn’t much help for a better answer.

“She said it was on them, on the Ministry and the Wizengamot and all of them. That they were the reason you’d… well, you know, we all thought you killed yourself.”

It was very clear that Potter just could not get over the subject. “I very nearly did, if that makes you feel better.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Potter made a face like he swallowed a whole lemon.

“I’m not. I had the poison and everything – you’ve seen it yourself. I was about as ready to go as I was ever going to get, and then… I decided to try something else first.” He shrugged and took a big gulp of his drink. He was getting quite lightheaded now. The blurriness of the beer was starting to rub on the world around, which became slightly off centered. Draco found it oddly calming.

“What did you try?” Potter asked, and the look in his eyes was starting to get ridiculous. Draco thought about it for a moment.

“Just to live, I suppose.” He took another sip, bringing the content of the pint to about halfway. He started to feel a little dizzy on top of it all. So a pint and a half before he is sozzled? Pathetic.

“I feel like I’m not going to get any answers out of you,” Potter complained.

“Your Auror training didn’t really prepare you for something like this, now, did it? Sitting at a Muggle pub with your old arch-nemesis, talking about how everything in life is essentially a steaming pile of rubbish.” He wondered if he was beginning to slur. It was a remarkable feeling, really. Right now the bottom of his belly was a warm, safe haven. He could dip into the pool of haziness and forget for a second how utterly miserable he was.

“No, definitely not,” Potter laughed. It was a nice sort of laugh. Draco grinned at him, and under the fog of alcohol he could admit that twenty-four year old Potter was actually somewhat attractive, even in this horrendous jumper. The little boy was a scrawny, disgusting mess, but this… Draco found he was biting his lower lip, and slapped himself mentally. _Get it together, Malfoy_. This was not dangerous, it was outright stupid.

He straightened himself on the stool and looked at the table. Where did the other half of his beer go? It wasn’t possible he’d finished it already. Startled he raised his gaze back to Potter, who was looking back at him like he had something to say, and Draco suddenly realized he must not let him do so or something truly awful will happen.

“I have to go,” he said, getting to his feet. “It’s late. I need to go back.”

“Oh, all right,” Potter scratched his head, surprised.

“Yes, it’s late and I, uh, need to get up early tomorrow. Sunday, you know.” He realized he sounded absolutely idiotic, but it was the best he could do in his inebriated condition.

“Right,” Potter got to his feet too. Draco caught a glimpse at his watch – it wasn’t even seven yet. He cleared his throat. “Do you want me to take you back to your place? I can probably apparate us there, if you don’t have any wards up.”

“I don’t – “ he nearly admitted to not knowing, which would be foolish, for what sort of wizard doesn’t know what wards he has on his own place of residence? “No, it’s okay. A walk would be good. I live very close by.”

“I know,” Potter said, and Draco cursed himself. Of course he does. Potter knew bloody _everything_.

“Right. So I… er, thanks for the beers. And I’ll, er,” he had to pause to collect his thoughts there, as the room was spinning a little around him, “I’ll…” nope. He had nothing.

“I’ll walk with you,” Potter said, concern seeping into his tone. “You feeling okay?”

“Fine,” Draco muttered, not sure how to get himself out of this mess with the way his thoughts were all a shimmering havoc. “I’m fine…”

They made it out of the pub, and the cold air on his face was a blessing. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force his mind to behave. What an idiot, he berated himself. What a bloody idiot, getting drunk with bloody Potter of all people. Potter who was an Auror. Potter who wanted to know things. He felt he’d have to spend the whole night on his knees to make up for this one.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You don’t look great.” Draco knew what he meant, because he was positively wobbling.

“Am fine. It’s the, uh, drink. I’m not so…” he gestured with his hand, because words were difficult. The movement nearly had him tumbling, though, and it was a struggle to remain upright.

“Used to it anymore?” Potter made as if to grab him, and Draco flung himself back as fast as he could.

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his arm Potter meant to take. “Don’t touch me.” They stood there, in the middle of the street, for about thirty seconds.

“Sorry,” Potter whispered, and the wind carried it to Draco’s ears somehow. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t do that,” Draco said, alarmed by Potter’s hurt look and feeling like he needed to explain himself. “Touching. I don’t… with people. Never.” That was about as good as he could do.

“All right,” Potter said softly, tucking his hands deliberately into the pockets of his jacket. “I understand. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Draco resumed his slow walk, and Potter followed suit. “Now you know.” No one touched him but Him. No one was allowed to. It wasn't just Draco's paralyzing fear of being touched; it was a rule, and rules had to be followed. Rules... Draco knew the rules... And suddenly a sense of dread nearly floored him, so severe he had to stop and place both hands on his heart.

“Malfoy? Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

It was meant to be his job, wasn't it, to keep Potter away? The whole reason He had to leave, trusting the mission to Draco? And if he failed... he had no idea what will happen, but it had to be bad, couldn’t ever be anything but. _The last time_ … Something bad was about to happen to Potter, and it was very real and very serious. Something bad was about to happen to him unless Draco makes sure he never, ever returns.

“Potter,” he said, wishing so hard he wasn’t so hopelessly smashed right now. “Potter, you have to listen to me.”

“What is it?” he came closer to him, and Draco could see the concern in his eyes. 

“You have to leave me alone,” Draco said dumbly. “You can’t keep coming back here, you know. It’s not good. You have to stop that.”

“I know,” Potter replied, shoulders sagging. “You’ve said that before. But – “

“No, no buts. You need to listen. It’s not good for you to come here, understand? You must leave and never return.” He was proud of being able to construct such a long sentence, and for a second he almost grinned. Then he remembered this was a serious conversation and he must keep a straight face.

“But I don’t want to – “

“I said no buts, you – you – you butt!” Draco was getting very angry now. Doesn’t he _understand_? Draco was only trying to help him! “You can’t come back. That’s it. Finite. Bye-bye.”

“I think you’re very drunk right now,” Potter sighed and closed his eyes. “Come on, let’s get you back to your place and to your bed. No, come on, Malfoy, stop being difficult. Let’s go. We can talk about all this when you’re in your right mind again.”

And that sounded sage enough, so Draco followed Potter as they made their slow march to the flat. It was funny how when he said it, he called it ‘your place’, like it was somehow Draco’s. He meant to correct him, too, before realizing how belligerent that would be. In the end they made it to the building and up the steps to the second floor, where Draco struggled to get the key through the keyhole, and then got inside. Potter looked around him as if expecting to find someone, but relaxed when he didn’t. Draco wanted to scoff, but he was busy leaning against the coffee table and trying not to throw up.

“Did you eat anything today?” Potter asked, looking at him incredulously. “You’ve only had, what, two pints? I think you could drink me under the table back at Hogwarts.”

“Probably could have,” Draco said, rubbing his eyes. “I ate… something. I think. At some point.” He gestured towards the kitchen without looking. He heard Potter go there and ruffle through the cabinets.

“You didn’t eat a damn thing from here, Malfoy. the kitchen’s not been touched for days except for this stale bread. What the hell? Why do you keep so many bags of uncooked groats in the freezer?”

Ah, the groats. Draco’s forgotten about them. It’s been some time since he had to kneel on them, the only thing that could make kneeling worse. Well, other than being stark naked and beaten senseless, at least. “Not… for eating… screw you, Potter, all right?”

Potter returned, looking severe and deeply displeased. “You didn’t get any groceries since I was here the last time. You didn’t have so much to begin with, but I see you haven’t touched anything that was here. Have you not been eating?”

Draco shrugged and fell onto the sofa. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“Because of me?” he couldn’t stand the misery in Potter’s voice. “Because of our conversations?” he shrugged, because it was half the issue at least, and he couldn’t think of anything else he could say. “Fuck. I’m… I’m sorry, Malfoy.”

“I don’t like eating alone,” he confessed, still keeping his eyes firmly on the carpet.

“Don’t you live alone?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do.”

“Right,” Potter replied. There was silence.

“I don’t eat so much anyway,” Draco continued after a while. “Not good for your figure.” He yawned.

“Huh.”

He yawned again, and suddenly realized he won’t be able to keep his eyes open for much longer. The stress combined with the beer was taking all his systems down, one after the other. “I think I need to sleep now.”

“Yeah. Er, I guess I should get going.”

“Yes,” Draco brightened, face breaking into a smile. “Yes, good idea.” he wanted nothing more than for Potter to leave and never, ever return. There was some value in the stupid git’s life, and Draco would hate it if something were to happen to Potter because of him.

“Will you lock after me?”

“What? Oh, yes, sure. Bye now.”

Potter still stood there when Draco finally raised his glance to him, all hesitant and nervous. Draco gestured towards the door. He nodded. “So… good night, Malfoy.”

“Night.” he waited. Nothing seemed to happen.

“And umm, I hope you feel better in the morning.”

“Sure. Bye, Potter.”

This was going to take an eternity, and Draco was not going to let it. He got to his feet and somehow made it to the door, opening it and giving Potter a stern look. “Goodbye forever.”

With his mouth still open as if he wanted to say something more, Potter finally left and allowed dizzy Draco to stumble to the floor, grabbing the coffee table’s leg as a point of reference. He was glad to be rid of Potter, even if it meant being alone. Alone. Because now he was alone. He couldn’t stop the rush of drunken tears that gathered on the bridge of his nose and fell to the carpet one by one, making no sound at all.


	7. Easy Like Sunday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some harsh language towards the end - not that it's the most shocking part of the chapter, but I haven't mentioned it as a warning before. All previous warnings still stand.

Draco never had a more bizarre Sunday in his life. He woke up early, as usual, and lay on his rug for some time staring at the ceiling. He had absolutely no idea what to do. _He_ was still away, and gods only know when He’d return. Draco kind of lost all faith it would be anytime soon. The shop was closed for the day, and Potter was hopefully gone. That left Draco with exactly… nothing. No purpose, no goal. No target to meet or mission to accomplish. Nothing.

He sat up, aghast. For so long he was filled to the brim with Him. When he woke up in the morning, he knew to whom he belonged, and he knew what he was to do. And now? What was he to do now? He scratched his head and tried to think logically. Potter said there wasn’t much food in the kitchen, so empirically speaking that should mean some shopping was due. Draco fiddled with the material of the rug, deep in thought. He had no idea where there was any money in the flat, nor whether there are grocery stores nearby. He never dealt with buying anything, and he was not trusted with any money. Suddenly his mind came up with the strange image of Him standing in a queue weighing vegetables. He had to shake himself thoroughly to get rid of that one.

Another thing that came to mind was the cleanliness of the place. It was very important to Him to live in a neat environment, and sometimes He’d have Draco clean around, but more often than not He’d just use magic. Draco had no idea where He kept the cleaning materials. Out of his reach, probably, after that incident with the bleach. He tore a thread out of the rug and mulled it in his fingertips.

Normally, on Saturdays Draco would bring back the earnings of that week and He would do the books. Now that Draco was alone, was he meant to do it himself? that seemed preposterous. Draco knew nothing about money and book-keeping and taxes. He wouldn’t know what to do with it even if he tried. Last night he left the bag of money in the safe at the shop, sure he’d be unable to get it right on his own. But was he _meant_ to try? Gods, this was exhausting. Having to think for himself was something Draco hardly even recognized anymore. He wanted to be told what to do, and to sweep all those uncomfortable thoughts way under the rug where he could not reach them. Like he can’t reach the bleach. Oh, this was just getting worse by the minute. He jumped to his feet before he could think a thing more and threw himself in the shower.

The hot water helped a little, and he left it feeling stronger. Okay, now he was clean, and putting on some clothes. Right. Time to try and be a proper man, not just a puppet imposing as human. He would go out and get whatever it is that needs to be gotten, and he will make Him so very proud, He’d have to come back. Yes, that was a good plan. Go on, Draco, he encouraged himself as he left the flat, as he walked on the cold street. You can do this. With some determination, a dash of smarts and a whole lot of intention, he set forth to put some order in the mess that became his life.

Two hours and a half later found him very nearly in tears, kneeling on the floor next to the toilet. He simply could _not_ open this stupid cleaning product, no matter how he tried. He spun and swung and hit and tapped and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ worked. Draco buried his head in the palms of his hands and tried very hard to keep himself from weeping. The shopping trip already had him in high dudgeon, and this was the bloody cherry on top. It was appalling, absolutely appalling. Draco sniffled until he was certain he wasn’t going to break, then resumed the attempt with his red, raw fingers.

The grocery store was a disaster. Draco had to walk the whole thing three times and still had no idea what to get. Not being allowed to cook meant he had no idea what ingredients were required in the kitchen, and being the fucking nitwit that he was meant he was utterly stumped. What bloody kind of butter do they normally have – salted or unsalted? Draco had to literally stop in the middle of the dairy aisle and close his eyes. You take the tub out every morning, he told himself, half-pleading and half-shouting inside his head. Come on, Draco, you _know_ this. But he didn’t, he didn’t, and he just stood there like an arse until he randomly selected one without looking. Then, to his horror, he arrived at the self-checkout.

Draco hadn’t been embarrassed in a long time. Truthfully, he sort of thought he never will be again. those days of wide-eyed blushing, rosy cheeks and swarming humiliation were behind him, he believed. Wrong. No matter what he tried, the automatic voice kept yelling at him, something to do with unexpected items in the bagging area. He had no idea what the fuck that could possibly mean. What was so unexpected about a loaf of bread? He tried everything – to be nice to the machine, to plead, at some point he even yelled, but there was no appeasing it. In the end a middle-aged Muggle lady took pity on him and literally scanned each and every item for him herself. She was very sweet, and indeed quite helpful, but Draco could not help feeling that he failed. There was a reason He never sent Draco to the store after all – it was because he simply could not do it. Thank Merlin he’d found those two fifty pound notes on the table earlier, for otherwise he could never afford any of it. He did wonder a little where they had come from, but one does not look a gift horse in the mouth, so he just shrugged and took them. It was very fortunate, since even with that he was struggling, and the nice Muggle had actually given him some of her own money to finalize the purchase. He thanked her with real tears in his eyes and fled before anyone could say a thing more to him.

And now, this. First a total meltdown at the store, and now this. Draco thought he’d try cleaning the bathroom first, where he knew best what to do. There would be days he’d just be scrubbing the tiles endlessly, getting high on the bleach’s intoxicating fumes, feeling all the time the keen pair of eyes on him. But now, on his own, Draco really didn’t feel up to the task. Grunting furiously he’d given the little lid his all, still it wouldn’t budge. His fury could not be put into words. Without even meaning to he shot upwards and stormed off to the kitchen.

Try something else, then. After placing his items in what he figured was the right place for them (the cat food he’d mistaken for tuna he simply threw away. No reason leaving it there where it could be used against him), he thought he should go for it and try to actually cook. He did after all live alone for some time, and should be able to fix himself _something_. Only back at that time he had a place to go to for hot food, and he never really bothered with preparing meals, so he really didn’t have much experience. Go on, Draco, he pleaded himself. Do something, anything. Even Muggles cook all the time, the stupid ones as well. You can do it. You can do it.

It quickly became evident he in fact could not. The tomato sauce he tried to make burned, and the pasta was gloopy and disgusting. He didn’t even try to eat any of it, just left it in the pot and let a rapid stream of curses flow out of him at surprising speed. He didn’t clean it straight away either, as a punishment to himself for being such a failure. Really, Draco, he said to himself with disgust, what the hell even are you now?

He couldn’t answer this question. Sinking to the floor in the middle of the flat, nearly breaking the skin of his arms with his nails, he really didn’t know. What was he now? No longer a prisoner, no longer a toy, too far away to be His, for sure no longer Draco Malfoy. What was left after all of that? What bloody remained?

He stayed on the floor for a long time, watching the light tracing along the flat as morning turned into afternoon. He wanted to disperse like dust and bounce off everything with the light, miniscule and breezy, free from this horrible weight in his chest. He was just as insignificant as the motes flying in the air around him anyway, just as solid as the rays. Why was he here still? Why was he here? He curled into a ball and prepared himself to stop being, simply ceasing to exist. If He would be back He could save Draco, but if not… nothing could. Not anymore. he heaved a long sigh and closed his eyes, ready to finally be gone.

There was a noise, mumbled at first, then growing clearer. A word. Something he knew. With extreme effort, Draco forced his mind to concentrate. What was that, repeating in this annoying manner, interrupting his newly discovered serenity? He thought he recognized the voice. Only after that did he understand what it was saying. His name. It was Potter.

Draco shot into sitting just as the knock resumed. “Malfoy? Malfoy?”

The shock he felt to be called by his name at that moment was something Draco could not even entirely understand. And to hear it again, and again, and again… He considered not opening the door at all, just letting Potter stand there and say his name over and over with growing concern. But after about a minute he felt stable enough to get up, and did in fact open the door. The man on the other side was holding a stack of newspapers in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

“Malfoy, are you all right? I saw someone on the floor.” There was still the blue glow on the door where Potter’s detection spell was activated.

“I’m fine,” Draco said, which was perhaps the furthest away from the truth he’d been in years. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to bring you these,” Potter said, and pushed the papers forward. Draco spotted a handsome country house before he returned to look at him. “It’s about your mother. It’s got some more details than I could give you last night, and it looked like you wanted to know.”

“Right,” Draco said, automatically taking the proffered pages. “Erm, thanks.” Potter still stood there. “Anything else?”

“I also, uh, brought some fish and chips.” He rattled the paper bag and Draco got a whiff of fried food. “You said you didn’t like to eat alone.”

Draco was so amazed, he had nothing to do but move so Potter could come in, and closed the door after him. He was still trying to regain his senses when Potter walked to the kitchen and started preparing the space for them to eat.

“I see you tried to cook something?” he asked, and Draco felt two red spots of heat blossom on his cheeks. This day would just never bloody end. He practically ran into the kitchen after him, but Potter didn’t look like he was mocking him. There was a smile on his face, but not a bad one.

“Apparently I’m not very good,” Draco admitted, somewhat surly. Potter nodded.

“It’s all right. We can’t all be good at everything.” With a flick of his wand he vanished the scorched sauce from the pan. After thinking about it for a second, he cast a second spell on the pasta. “It seemed a touch overcooked.”

“I always despised Italian food,” Draco blurted out, his second outrageous lie for the day. Potter didn’t seem upset by it.

“Oh, it can be very good if you do it properly. There’s this little place near the Ministry, I go there sometimes when I’m called on a meeting. If you tried their stuff, I’m sure you’d change your mind.” He placed two empty plates on the table (Draco hated how well acquainted he already was with His kitchen) and poured the fish and chips from the containers. “You like vinegar, yeah?”

Draco shrugged. He didn’t, really, but he was far too accustomed to not having his way for it to matter. He reached out to take the plate from Potter’s hands, but he wouldn’t let him. “No, it’s all right. There’s one without. Here.” And he gave Draco the other plate, taking for himself the one with the vinegar.

Draco was again too stunned to know what to do. This was a simple gesture, and it was more than he’d gotten in years. For a second he just blinked at Potter, who began to eat in a way that was almost barbaric. “What is it? Not hungry?” It was hard to understand him through the mountain of chips he was trying to conquer.

“No, it’s…” Draco shook his head. He was lightheaded as if he’d drank an entire bottle of Firewhiskey. Just five minutes ago he was nothing, and now he was sitting at the table like a normal human being with Harry Bloody Potter eating fish and chips. He had no idea what to do with himself. Somewhere in him he knew, _knew_ that Potter shouldn’t be there, that this was wrong, but he was too weak and insubstantial to do anything about it. With a little sigh he took a chip and pushed it in his mouth.

Potter seemed content to see him eating, and resumed consuming his portion. It felt a little rude, but it was impossible not to watch him - Potter was mesmerizing, the casual way he was conducting himself, the confidence that oozed from each movement he made. Draco envied him for it so much it almost burned. He also found himself, very much against his wishes, admiring it. He had this insane notion to put his hand next to Potter’s callous one laid on the table by his plate. Not to touch – he couldn’t do that – but to be near. To feel his warmth.

Startled, Draco busied his traitorous hands with the food, and there was silence for a while. Potter was the first to finish, unsurprisingly, and took the time when Draco was still eating to look around himself. “I see you went shopping?”

Draco nodded. It seemed like many moons ago had passed since he did that. “It didn’t go very well. Had a row with the cashier.”

“Oh, really? What did they do?” Potter brought two interested eyes back to him, and Draco nearly choked on a piece of fish in his mouth.

“Not so much what they did as what I did. It was a self-checkout.”

“Ah,” Potter’s lips curved into a smile. “I get that. I hate those stupid machines so much. They always give me trouble.”

He couldn’t even grasp how gratified he was to hear this – that someone else, a _real_ man, was having the same struggle as him – and so he settled by taking a large sip of water. Something, he needed to say something. “Does the great Harry Potter do his own shopping, then? You don’t have an army of people doing those things for you yet?”

Potter laughed, and it was again that nice laugh that had Draco close to losing his marbles last night. It was so bizarre to hear it in this kitchen, where Draco was only used to hearing Him. In this flat where mere minutes ago he stopped existing. It was too much to take in. “No, I still do these things on my own. I’d hate to have someone in my kitchen or doing my shopping. It feels far too personal to let someone else do it.”

Draco considered that for a moment. “Your wife would probably do that sometimes, though?”

“My what?” Potter nearly gagged with surprise. He put down his glass and stared at Draco, mouth open.

“Wife? You know, the woman you married? Red haired, tons of freckles, mean Bat-Bogey hex?” Draco didn’t understand why Potter looked like he slapped him. The last he read, when he was living in Cambridge after Azkaban, Potter was engaged to Weasley. Surely they tied the knot since then?

“You mean Ginny?” Potter asked, blinking very fast all of a sudden.

“That’s the one, yes. Are you saying you didn’t actually marry her? I seem to remember it was all the rage back then. You couldn’t open a single newspaper without seeing pictures of your engagement.”

Potter laughed, a strangled little sound this time, and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s old news. We split up a little after that. Sorry, I thought everyone knew. I didn’t realize you were that detached from everything in the wizarding world.”

Draco was this close to explaining why, before he shut his mouth with alarm. What the hell? He can’t be telling him these things. Draco can’t talk to Potter about Him. “Er, yes. When I left I completely left. Can’t really put your old life behind if you keep reading news about it.” This was true enough, so he didn’t feel bad saying it.

“I get what you mean. Sometimes I wish I could do the same.” Potter shrugged nonchalantly. “The stories I brought you did check out, though. I ran your mother’s profile in our database. The details seem to match.”

“Right,” Draco said, a feeling of unease creeping inside him. “Um… thanks for that.”

“No problem.” Potter looked around him some more. “So what do you do on Sundays around here?”

Ah, what a question that was. What did he do on Sundays around here? Draco thought about it. Usually he started the day with a rough session of aggressive sex. Then he’d do some things around the house, according to His requests, or simply kneel in his corner for a few hours if He had things to attend to. Then there’d be more aggressive sex, some punishments he incurred from the last week or words of encouragement, and to cap the day off probably some more, that’s right, _very_ aggressive sex. Gods, he missed it all, and it was terrifying and humiliating on a whole new level.

“Not much. Clean, shop, you know. Normal things.” It hurt a little how much he longed to feel His warm body pressed against his. More than a little, really. Only a few days alone and already it was far too much. Again he had that insane craze to almost touch Potter, so he stuck his hands in his pockets.

“That’s nice. Clean, you said?” Potter gave the room another look over. The mess from Draco’s failed cooking attempt flooded the sink, and even the splash-back was affected.

“Er,” Draco scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not very good at it either.”

“Do you want me to give you a hand?” Potter offered lightly. “I can spell it clean in no time. I clean my own house for many years now, and I’m really quite good at it.”

Draco stared at him for a moment. “You don’t have to do that,” he said plainly. Potter raised one careless shoulder.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. I like to clean.”

“You _like_ to clean?” Draco repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah. I really do. I find it soothing.”

“Potter…” Draco expelled a long-suffering sigh. “I know what you’re trying to do here. I appreciate it, but really, I’m fine. You told me about my mother, and now you brought me these papers about her, so your debt is definitely paid. You don’t need to feel guilty about riling me up anymore. You’re all good.”

“It’s not why I’m doing this,” Potter insisted. “I really do like to clean. It won’t take me five minutes, I promise.”

Draco should have argued some more, but he was tired, and it was such a comfort to have a living, breathing entity nearby that actually saw him. If anything he was closer to begging him to stay.

“Have at it,” he gestured with his free hand, and Potter got to his feet with a delighted look on his face.

“Brilliant. Here, you just sit here and I’ll be done in no time. You can read what I’ve brought in the meantime.”

It was eerily familiar, to be ordered around, and Draco found himself obeying quickly. He brought the pile closer to him and examined the first article. It was dated a year and a half ago, and described his mother’s return to the country. Apparently she’d gotten herself a place on the lands near the Manor. Oh, Draco thought, feeling the sting against his eyelids. Mother… it was hard to read through, but he somehow persevered. The articles weren’t sympathetic, to say the least, but they weren’t entirely hostile either. It would seem that losing her son before he was twenty one made people feel a little sorry for Narcissa, and it kept them from tearing her apart completely. Thank the gods for small mercies, he thought gloomily. That was really the best thing either of them got out of this situation. With him gone, she could turn a new leaf. She could start again…

The articles said she was struggling financially, and his heart broke reading that. He knew first-hand what it meant to count his knuts. It was even harder to imagine his mother, ever so refined, so well-bred and delicate, having to suffer through such indignities. Apparently Potter understood it wrong; the Ministry didn’t allow her to return without seizing the funds, it simply allowed her to return. With no money but for what she got for her jewelry she sold back in France… Draco felt his heart catching fire, sending lava down his veins. He was so angry again, and in his brittle state he couldn’t take all this wrath. He placed both arms on the table and pillowed his head on them, trying hard to marshal his breathing.

“Malfoy? Is everything all right?” Reading about his mother made him forget entirely about the other person in the house, and Draco jumped with alarm.

“What? Yes, sorry. It’s just… thinking about her so unhappy, it…” Draco shook his head. “It’s a little hard to bear.”

“Yeah, I get that. I’m sorry if this was a bad idea, I just thought you’d prefer to know. Not knowing can be just as bad sometimes.”

Draco nodded and closed his eyes. “It’s not as bad as I imagined, I promise you that. No, it was a kind thing to do, bringing these over to me. Thank you. I appreciate it.” His voice was disgustingly uneven.

Potter sat down next to him. For a second, Draco was sure he’s about to touch him, and opened his eyes just a slit in alarm. But he didn’t; he only laid his hand next to Draco’s on the table. “I know it can’t be easy, to be away from her.”

Draco pondered what he’s at liberty to say, but in the end he decided that fuck it. “Sometimes it’s the worst thing in the world. Not to be able to see her, to know she’s in pain because of me.”

Potter’s hand shook a little on the table. “You don’t have to, you know. Stay away from her.”

“Please,” Draco choked out, for he was already on the very edge, or perhaps past it. “Please don’t do this.” He bent his head and took his hands off the tables, placing them in his lap. He was not strong enough for this. With rising trepidation, he thought that Potter isn’t even meant to be here. He was meant to be _gone_. This was bad, all over this was bad.

“Sorry,” Potter whispered, and it felt like a soft stroke on his cheek. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Draco shook his head. “Why are you here, Potter? Married or not, you must still have _something_ better to do on a Sunday than to be in this miserable place with me of all people. Don’t you have friends? Family? Someone to pester other than your old school rivals?”

He could hear Potter’s shrug even if he didn’t see it. “I don’t know. I thought I should come. I wanted to.”

“Because you felt guilty,” Draco said curtly.

“No, it’s not that – “

“Right,” he snapped, shaking his head. “Saint Potter simply can’t let go, can’t you? Always looking to take on all the blame? Bloody give it up. There’s nothing you can do for me anyway. There was never a need, since it was never actually _your fault_ , but I’m giving you the formal release. Okay? Just let it go already.”

Potter drew a wide breath. “I know you’re angry, and I understand that, but I promise you it’s not like that. I don’t feel guilty, I swear. It’s not that.”

“What is it, then? You’re just unable to let someone be miserable on their own? You have to swoop in and fix anything that’s broken? You will not be able to do that here, I’m afraid. I’m a lost cause. Spare yourself the trouble and fucking go.” He was indeed angry, so much so that he brought his head up and looked directly at the green eyes. “I don’t want your help. If I didn’t make myself clear enough, let me do so now. I am not interested.”

“Fuck, you’re relentless, aren’t you?” Potter sounded exasperated. “Ever thought about anyone other than yourself, Malfoy? Or it is just the same old up in that blond noggin of yours? Not everything is about _you_.”

That was so unfair, Draco could do nothing but gape. “What?” he asked in the end, and even that was a struggle.

“I’m sick and tired of hearing my motives explained to me when you don’t even take the time to listen properly,” Potter said, tone rising slightly all the time. “You’re not the only one that’s been through shit, Malfoy. Sure, you’ve had it that much worse, but you’re not the only one walking around with baggage. You know that half our class is dead by now? You wouldn’t, because you chose to bloody run away instead of dealing with it, but out of the people that we knew as boys almost no one remained. Do you have any idea how it felt when I suddenly saw your face in that store? To see that you’re _alive_? Someone who knows what it feels like, someone who’s still living with what the war did to us all? I have no one to talk to about it sometimes. Ron and Hermione are busy with their relationship and their careers, and they prefer to live in the world as it is now. Neville is off at Hogwarts. Luna is out of the country more often than not. Ginny and I aren’t speaking anymore. I can’t find a single person who is willing to think about it, I fucking _can’t_. I'm still living in the shadows sometimes, so lonely in that awful house I can hardly even sleep at night, and then I saw you. And I saw in one minute that you’re just the same as me. That you’re fucked up just like I am about all of it. I thought…” Potter rubbed his eyes again, voice cracking a little. “I don’t know. I thought I could talk to you. That you might understand.”

Draco let his rant dissipate into nothing, and then just sat there for a second, completely lost. He had no idea, of course, that was what Potter wanted. Someone to talk to that was still as bothered about it all. Ironically, Draco did fit the bill perfectly; however, he was not in a position where he could allow himself to be that person. Well… he wasn’t in that position, until recently. Until everything changed. Because now Draco was alone, and alone was so bad for him, he could cry. _Did_ cry. Maybe this was what he needed in the meantime - maybe this was something he could have in the end. For someone to be here, to want to talk to him - it didn't even matter who, or what about, just that he'd be there. Not that he forgot about Him, not that he ever could, just that… the last few days brought him to such a fragile state, he could shatter at any moment. He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” he said finally, tense on his seat. It was hard to decide what this was more, stupid or dangerous, but he didn't care. This wasn't the way he thought it will go, and it didn't matter either. He was too weak to fight it, too needy and pathetic and weak, and he'd do this any way he can, take whatever he could. Potter wanted to talk to him... stupid. It was stupid. There was still Him and His task, remember? Gaining Potter's trust, getting him to leave, so He could come back. But then again - If he talks to Potter, then maybe he could convince him to go without any necessary action from Him. It didn't seem like Potter was about to give up any time soon, which meant this was actually his best shot. Draco nodded, trying to encourage himself. “All right. You can... you can talk to me. Maybe I won’t be able to understand everything, but certainly parts of it.”

Potter’s eyes filled with disbelief. “Really? Are you sure? I know that there’s a lot you don’t want to talk about, and I understand. It’s just… sometimes it’s all I can do not to scream, you know.”

Draco looked at him. “I do know.” He bit his lower lip, struggling to summon the courage. “I can’t promise you that I’d be able to talk about it all, but I can give it a try. I suppose there is nothing to lose here.”

Potter nodded too. “All right then. If it’s Okay by you. I guess we could try.” There was a long silence, and Draco thought he might actually throw up if none of them said something soon.

“Are you done cleaning the kitchen, then? Because I have this bleach product I’ve been fighting with all morning that I’d like to get your help with.”

Potter’s smile seemed a little watery, but he got to his feet anyway. “Lead me to the bastard.” Draco smiled too as he walked out the kitchen and kicked the bloody thing over to Potter for inspection. Perhaps this day was not going to be as bad as he’d imagined after all.

***

Potter ended up cleaning the bathroom for him. He also hoovered the carpet, changed the bedsheets (Draco didn’t have the heart to tell him he shouldn’t bother), and took the bin bag down. By the time he was done, the place was sparkling clean, far better than if Draco would have done it by himself. It was almost a nice feeling, even if he still felt like utter shit. The only problem was, now that it was all done, Potter would probably leave and Draco would be alone again. It was too early in the evening to go through all that once more. He carefully situated himself in front of Potter who looked about, assessing his work.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Draco said, gesturing around the room. “This is really… you didn’t have to do it, but it’s really great.”

“No problem,” Potter beamed, rolling down his sleeves. “I had fun, honestly. Sometimes I think I’d make a better cleaner than I do an Auror.”

Draco cracked a grin at that. “Of course. Was there ever any task that you _weren’t_ good at? Figures just as much. I was probably the worst cleaner in the Golden Horntail’s history, even if I do say so myself.”

Potter quirked an eyebrow. “You were the worst cleaner where?”

“The Golden Horntail, just outside Diagon Alley. You know the place, a dingy little pub, voted worst steak pie in the country? I was a kitchen porter there when I was on parole.”

“Oh,” Potter said, eyes widening in understanding. “I see.”

“I was rubbish,” Draco said quickly, seeing the dangerous way the green eyes were rounding. “Couldn’t hold a rag properly, I was told. Although I don’t know why they complained so much, the kitchen was spotless every night. At least that’s how I remember it.”

Potter’s smile was hesitant. “It’s really not that difficult. I can show you some time if you want. Of course, it’s easier when you use magic.”

“Sure,” Draco said, and he felt like he should change the subject immediately. “Anyway, as a thank you, will you let me buy you some dinner? There’s an Indian across the street. To be honest I’ve never eaten there, but it always smells fantastic when I walk by. We’d just need to pop by the shop, though, because I don’t have any money on me right now.”

“Don’t be silly,” Potter waved a hand at him, looking a little red around the face all of a sudden. “You don’t need to thank me at all. I would love to have some dinner, though. It feels like the fish and chips was ancient history.”

Draco wanted to disagree, since he already ate more today than he had all week combined, but he was desperate to have company for a little while longer. “Exactly. So do you fancy going there, or do we get a take away?”

“Let’s go there. Everything is so clean here, it would be a shame to mess it up.” They got into their coats and made their way to the restaurant. Draco suggested this one because it was the only one he remembered seeing in the area. He never ate outside, and he had no idea what else the surrounding streets had to offer. Sometimes, when he’d get punished and not eat for some time, he’d walk by that particular place and nearly faint from the aroma of food hanging about the premises.

This was his first time inside, and the smell was even stronger and more enticing. For the first time in a while, Draco actually felt hungry. Saliva was gathering in his mouth, which for a startling second made him think of Azkaban. He tried to push the memory away when they were shown to a table by the window, but Potter noticed the change in his face.

“Malfoy? what’s wrong?”

It took a second to be able to use his tongue again. “Nothing. It’s – nothing.” When he found the courage to look into his eyes, he saw the disbelief deep in the green sea. He sighed. “I just remembered something from Azkaban. It’s not a big deal, though, and I wouldn’t want to ruin dinner before it even began.”

“You can talk about it if you want to,” Potter said softly, and it was just so bloody weird. Draco was used to either complete indifference, or to being with someone who already _knew_ everything about him and to whom Draco didn’t need to explain a thing. If He were here, He’d know in a heartbeat why Draco looked so miserable. And most likely it would make Him smile. Draco braced himself and lowered his eyes to the table.

“It was this thing they used to do when I wouldn’t play along. In the first few months, when I still had some fighting in me. They’d starve me till I was delirious, then try to get me to… do things in order to be fed. To train me, as it were, to react to some signals they’d devised, some sounds and touches. For example, upon hearing three whistles, I was to fall to my hands and knees. Apparently it’s someone called Pavlov who trained his dog to salivate when it heard a ring that gave them the idea. They thought they could train me to do the same. Their own lapdog.”

He didn’t feel strong enough to look up, even when he heard the sharp intake of breath. “That’s… awful.”

Draco shrugged. “It was only the beginning. After a while it stopped bothering me. I can’t say it got easier, but it certainly did get smoother.” He played with the menu in his hands for a second. “Do you know what you want to get? I think I’ll go for the chicken curry.” He’d never had Indian food in his life, and that seemed like a safe enough choice. Potter didn’t answer, but their waiter materialized as if apparted to them, and took their order. Potter ordered something called Korma. Draco thought that sounded odd, but he didn’t make a single remark. When the waiter walked away the silence between them was thick enough to cut with a plastic spoon.

“Malfoy, are you…” Potter sounded so sad, Draco had to look up. “Did you talk to anyone about it? What you’d been through?”

Draco wondered how much to divulge. He didn’t think he’d be able to lie right now, not when he was this vulnerable. “Not for a while. And then – yes, there was one person I talked to.”

“Who?” Potter asked, and it was way too forward for Draco. He scoffed.

“A man. A friend. A… well, if you have to know, he was my partner.” Not much reason to keep this a secret, really. He didn’t have to tell him anything _about_ Him, after all. The fact He simply existed wasn’t such a scandal.

Potter gasped in surprise. “Your partner?”

“Yes. My partner.”

It took Draco a moment to realize why Potter looked so stunned, until he blurted out, “You had a – a – a male partner?”

Oh gods, there it was. Draco rolled his eyes. He was so scared of revealing any of the more dangerous details that he hadn’t even given a thought to the _gay_ part of it. Of course, no one was perfect, and little Savior Potter had probably never even met a queer man before. Well, this was something Draco was okay with him freaking out about. Moreover, if he was going to throw a fit, Draco was glad they weren’t in the flat. He’d hate it if Potter broke any of His things.

“Yes, Potter, I had a male partner. I had a _boyfriend_ , does that frighten you? Do you find that absolutely revolting? I promise you I had been called every single name possible, so you can’t possibly offend me. Still, I suggest you try your hardest. This should be good, I’ve seen the way you people throw insults. I expect to be highly entertained.”

“You people?” Potter asked, a little smile stealing on his face. “Who are us people?”

“Prudes,” Draco waved a hand, “goody-two-shoes. Gryffindors. People who think the only sexual position in missionary and that women don’t orgasm. You know, those people.”

Potter laughed, and it was unexpected enough to make Draco’s eyebrows knit together. He hadn’t realized he said something funny. “You’re unbelievable, Malfoy.”

“I am perfectly aware of that. I would like to know why on this instance, though.”

Potter grinned, and it was such a warm one that Draco felt it in his cheeks. “First of all, I am not a prude. And I do think that women orgasm, though I don’t have so much experience in that department. I’m gay too, you see.” That was enough to make Draco choke on nothing. He grasped for water and gulped some down fast. _What_? Potter was gay? “God, I keep forgetting you don’t read the Prophet and all that. It made some big waves, I’m surprised it didn’t reach you as well. Yes, I'm gay, and the whole bloody world knew that but you.”

Draco flailed a little for an answer. “You – really? Since when did you know?”

Potter shrugged elegantly. “I didn’t have much time to think about it, having spent all my youth fighting Voldemort. But after it was all done… when the shock kind of died down and I had the presence of mind to take some time for myself… it was perfectly clear. I think I knew it all along, it just took some time to admit it.”

Draco was very hot around the face. “Is that why you broke up with Weasley?”

Potter nodded, although his smile diminished slightly. “She didn’t take it very well. I think I really offended her on some level. She said I should have been honest with her from the beginning. I couldn’t really explain to her that I was, it was just that I… wasn’t honest with myself, I guess.” He took a somber sip from his water. “I always wanted a family, you know. The bigger the better. I pictured myself with a wife and children and a dog, the whole thing.”

“You can have a family if you’re gay,” Draco said softly. Gods, if this were another world, he could be telling himself that too. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“I know,” Potter nodded. “It just, again, took some time to figure out.”

Draco stared at him, shock and disbelief mixing in whirls in his gut. To think that Harry Potter, of all people… he sighed. If this were another world, he could have asked him on a date. If he were a real human being and not a sad impostor, he could have had a family of his own. If only… he hated so the thought of being ultimately alone.

Their dishes arrived just in time to save him from falling into that old pit of despair, and they tucked into their food without too many words between them. Draco found his dish to be delicious, absolutely terrific, although he could only stomach about half of it. Potter, the unbelievable git, finished his dish then had the audacity to steal glances at Draco’s until the latter caved and allowed him to finish it, which he had done with much gusto. All in all, bellies full with excellent food, they sat there in silent contentment that Draco was wholly unfamiliar with.

In the end it was time to go, however much Draco wished it would never come. Potter paid the check and they went outside, the cold night air pinching Draco’s skin and making him shiver. “That was a great choice of place, Malfoy. One of the best Indians I’ve had.”

Pleased, Draco beamed at him. “Thanks for getting it. And for all your help today. It was nice to have you around for a change.”

Potter’s smile was very delicate. “Listen, what I said before, about you being unbelievable? I did mean it because of what you’d said about me being a prude, but it wasn’t just that. You having a boyfriend surprised me not only because you were gay. It was more the fact that you let yourself open up, be in a relationship after everything you’ve been through. It’s incredible. I really admire you for that.”

The warm glow in his cheeks intensified. “You’re a prat, but thanks. It’s not been the easiest all the time.”

“I can only imagine,” Potter nodded encouragingly. “Really, I admire that. You are such a strong person, Malfoy. Strong and incredible. Even if you can’t cook for shit.”

Draco had no chance. His grin would have lit the whole street. “Fuck you too, Potter.”

For a second it looked like he was about to pat him on the shoulder, but then Potter’s hand changed directions and landed in his own hair. “Good night, Malfoy. I guess I’ll see you round soon enough.”

“Sure. Night, Potter. Thanks again.” Draco couldn’t help but wishing that soon will be sooner than that. To have someone _smiling_ at him like that was absolutely the most head-spinning, addictive thing Draco had ever experienced.

There was something warm thrumming in his chest as he watched Potter walking away. Something inexplicable, unexpected and utterly frightening. Something like… Draco didn’t think he was courageous enough to try and give it a name. It was madness, sheer madness, but there it stood, crystal clear. It was only yesterday that Draco was ready to tear Potter’s head off his shoulders. Then only last night that he was willing to reveal something that could destroy him if it meant saving his life. And now – now Potter went ahead and did the complete opposite; he saved Draco. There was no reason denying it – this afternoon Draco was dead. He had given up, and Potter came and picked him up (not literally, thank Merlin) and now he was alive again, and a human again, seen and listened to and valued. He was… Draco took himself up the stairs with an incredulous grin smeared on his face. He had a _normal_ evening. Like a normal person. And Potter, with the way he kept looking at him… it was dreadful, an absolute nightmare. Potter made him feel warm. Potter made him feel there.

Then, inside the flat, Draco started hearing the screeching alarm in his head. This wasn’t madness, it was – whatever the hell the step beyond that was. He couldn’t be feeling like that, like he was someone, more than the waste of space and the bloody vermin that he was. More importantly; he couldn’t allow himself to feel this _warmth_. What was he thinking to himself? What the _hell_ was he thinking? Feeling like – like _that_ for someone? Feeling anything at all for anyone but Him? it was unforgivable. He can’t do this. He can’t. Bad, bad Draco, he slapped himself into a full spin on the carpet. You filthy, filthy piece of shit, you absolute and terrible excuse for a human being…

Anxiety was spinning inside him rapidly even when his body came to a stop, and at some point he couldn’t hold himself and ran to the toilet to throw up everything he ate. Gods, this was bad. Gods, this was so bad. Walking around the room with his hysteria building, Draco considered what he was to do. Breathing became an impossible mission beyond the incapacitating pain in his chest. What he let himself do, think, was _terrible._ Laughing with Potter – talking to him so freely – looking at him like that, letting him save him – it was so, so horrible. He needed to suffer for it. How could he do this, betray Him like that? How could he let himself feel it even for a second? He needed to be punished – but how can he pay sufficiently if there is no one there to do it? How to make up for the terrible, terrible sin he committed? In the end he fell to his knees in his corner and closed his eyes, thoughts buzzing around his mind and confusing him. It was not enough, and he knew it. He had to be severely punished, monumentally so, he had to be _wrecked_ to even come close to paying for this. How can he make this worse? How can he make this worse?

It came to him like another slap to the face. Draco jumped to his feet and tore the freezer open, dragging a bag of groats back to his corner and proceeding to spill its contents on the floor. Then he took all his clothes off, one garment after the other in what must have taken an hour at least, until he was naked and shivering with cold. Then, with a vicious pleasure that came from the sheer humiliation and the petrifying fear, he lowered himself onto kneeling on the still-frozen grains, feeling them scrape and tear his skin. It was extremely painful, and the longer he stayed there the worse it would be. Draco shivered even wilder, cold and bare and so very anxious, hoping that these drastic measures will relieve the terrible ache he felt inside. He closed his eyes, in his mind repeating the words he said a million times over, in his waking hours and in his dreams.

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for being a fucking Death Eater piece of garbage. I’m sorry for being a filthy fucking whore. I’m sorry for having a prissy little mouth and an even prissier little arse, and for how bloody insatiable I am. I’m sorry for licking the Dark Lord’s boots and enjoying it when he fisted me every day. I’m sorry for being such a masochist and forcing you to hurt me. I’m sorry for being a motherfucker and a useless cock who doesn’t understand his place in this world._

It went on for hours. It went on forever. Draco cried and cried until morning came.


	8. Two Evenings

It was a rough morning, if he was being honest, and Draco was too tired to pretend. He spent the entire night on the groats, and it was so stupidly painful that he barely managed to drag himself to the bath. Immersed in hot water it felt somewhat bearable, but Draco knew he will not be able to open the store on time. The nights he spent on the groats often bade late starts, unless He was willing to heal him. Draco thought with more than a little despair of the last healing charm He’d used. How wonderful it was, all warm and brilliant and loving in a way he never believed he deserved to feel. Gods, Draco wished He were here so bad. Even to glower at him, to yell and to hurt him even further. Anything, just for him to be there. He needed so bad to be understood this morning, it hurt even more than his knees.

The worst part was not the pain, after all. The worst part was being there, naked in the dark, eyes closed in a state between a lucid dream and being awake, never sure which monsters will strike an attack. Saying those words, the ones they had him memorize, Grove and Rutgrass and the rest of them. He could still see their leers clearer than the bathroom tiles around him. Draco wished so hard to be able to forget, but He didn’t want that. _He_ said it wasn’t right, that it would only make Draco even more unstable, not knowing, and perhaps He was right. Still, if Draco could, he would carve these memories out of his heart with a bloody knife. Even if it was the most painful thing in the world. Even if it would kill him.

There was a lot he’d get rid of, actually. Most if not all of his memories were now tainted. The snotty little brat he was and the happy childhood Draco was rather sure he had were submerged under so much fucking darkness, they were impossible to retrieve. The things that remained were bad enough to make him scream: Death Eaters filling the Manor halls and the Dark Lord beckoning him to come; Azkaban – enough said; the rickety and uncertain relationship with Him, which was grounding and absolutely necessary and still in some ways worse than the rest of it. So much hate and fear and wrong, it was baffling. Maybe He was right; if Draco could choose, he would remove so much of himself that he’d have nothing left. There was only one sliver of light in the whole of the last decade, and it was too painful to think of, for it too was so very lost to him. He lost it himself, actually. Being a stupid, worthless piece of garbage.

Those months he spent in Cambridge when he was on parole… They were too good for him, that was sure enough. The feeling he was _looked after_ , that he had someone who cared for him without wanting to hurt him. He didn’t trust it, not really, but maybe he could have. Maybe he was even beginning to. Right up until the night when he ruined it all, because that was just the kind of arsehole he was.

Of course he had to fuck it up. He always fucked everything up. And that night, just when it was all going to be all right, when he finally started to believe her when she’d said – when he thought that maybe he could actually be okay – then he went and did it, the most careless, most idiotic thing he could have done. And then he really would have spent the rest of his miserable life in Azkaban –

 _No_ , Draco admonished, flicking now-cool water in both hands. No, no, fucking no. He was not going to go there, not right now, not after last night. Draco dove under the water and forced his breathing to calm back to a normal pace. He didn’t need to think about that night and what he lost, because He made it all right. _He_ found him and fixed him and Draco would never go back, never set foot in the prison again because _He had him_.

Draco thought again about how much he owed Him, how He saved him in His own unique way. That it was harsh, brutal even, sometimes outright cruel – didn’t mean all that much. It worked, after all. Before Potter came along, Draco hardly ever thought of Azkaban. Didn’t need to think about it. He was almost entirely free of it, since he gave him all to Him. Leaving all the pain and trauma in His hands was in many ways releasing it. And now that it was all back, and Draco was alone again, it proved too hard to push away.

It was all Potter’s fault. Incredible, annoying Potter that just had to be such an understanding, considerate piece of shit. Who had to make him… No, Draco was not going to fall for that trick again. The things he felt last night were scraped out of him with a chisel made of groats, and he would never repeat that mistake. He felt _nothing_ for Potter, who was strictly a thorn in his side. With those green lanterns of his and the way his eyebrow creased and that smile, that damned smile that made Draco feel absolutely _nothing_.

And he was gay, too! How impossibly bewildering. To think that the Savior was a deviant like him was something Draco couldn’t quite grasp. He never had so much time to come to terms with his own sexuality, being thrown into the horrors of war as a kid and then into the hell that was Azkaban. To say that he has matured naturally in that regard would not even be an exaggeration, it would be a laugh. And to think there was another way – Potter’s sure, confident way of saying, _by the way, I’m also gay_ – Draco was barely even able to do that with three little ladies in his store, let alone someone who actually knew him. He added it to the long list of things he envied Potter for. If as a child it was his supreme skills on a broom, the love of their teachers, the attention he’d received, now the list was entirely different. _His confidence, not shattered by terrors. The ease he feels in his own body._ And now, the way he was just okay with being gay. It just seemed like such a nice thing to feel. Draco thought he would have liked to have a little less reason to loathe himself.

An hour and a half in the tub made for some improvements in his state, and after it he was able to stand, even if only briefly. Leaning heavily on doors and walls he got into the bedroom, dressed and left for work. He wasn’t hungry, for stress filled his belly enough, and he was late anyway. When he got to the shop the delivery van was there already, and a lady he’s never seen before ran to him with a relieved smile. Draco let her in and signed the paperwork, again debating whether or not to ask about David, but he had his fair share of trouble as it was. The woman was kind enough to ask if he needed any help, since she’d seen the way he was limping, but he shook his head and waved her away. This was the last thing he needed. Not any more people coming into his life and making it even messier than it was. When she left he sank into his chair and rubbed his eyes till he was certain he was not going to cry.

It ended up being an all right day, without too many customers, which suited him fine. He was so tired and his body was only half-working, and the cold was definitely not helping. Draco was damn glad when five o’clock arrived and he was able to close up shop, even if the thought of walking back to the flat was more than a little daunting. Still he made it, and collapsed onto the sofa before he could even think about it. Not on the floor, not right now. He didn’t think he’d be able to take it.

Of course, if He were in, Draco would have kneeled. But He was not here, and that was the just the problem, wasn’t it? That he was on his own? Draco’s heart filled with resentment. Why did He leave him alone? Not that Draco didn’t deserve to suffer like this, of course he did, but still… wasn’t there a limit to how cruel one can be to a man? Wasn’t there a rule somewhere? And He told him that He loved him. What utter nonsense.

It hurt even worse, because it wasn’t meant to be like this. _He_ was the only source of consolation, the only thing Draco could derive any comfort from. Damn it, He was all he had. The man who was supposed to take care of him. The man who had him sitting at the palm of His hand… but now it felt all wrong, and the hand was slick and cold and scaly – it wasn’t a hand, it was a snake, and it wrapped around Draco’s body, hissing – it coiled around his neck – it was suffocating him – _you’ve been bad, Draco, you’ve been bad and you need to pay –_ please, no – the snake had merciless red eyes and Draco’s shriek was lost in the vacuum in which he was suspended – then the red eyes turned a metallic blue –

Draco had to push himself off the sofa, and only hitting the ground finally tore him out of the nightmare. Gods fucking _damn_ it. He rubbed his eyes, furious and confused and bloody sick of it all. It was too much for one person. The Dark Lord’s red eyes, Grove’s blue, His brown. It was too, too, too much, and he was too, too, too small, and he had had enough… he couldn’t take it any longer…

He caught himself right before it was too late. Great, he scolded but with very little conviction, this was bloody great. He can’t stop thinking about it for one rotten second. He was driving his own self mental and no one was there to save him. He could get out of Azkaban, and apparently he could get away from Him too, but Draco would never, ever be able to escape from himself.

 _I’m sorry for being such a masochist,_ the words rang in his ears, and he nearly threw up again. He cannot do this to himself, not any longer. He had to fucking rein it in, all of it. He had to get a bloody grip. Being on his own meant exactly this; that he had to control himself from tearing his soul to shreds. He was a person, wasn’t he? _Wasn’t he?_

A knock on the door had him out of breath for a second, before he heard the familiar voice. “Malfoy, it’s me. I brought food, if you’re hungry.” Draco sat up, heart racing, confused beyond reason. Potter was back again? Already?

He stumbled to the door and opened it, finding a grinning Potter on the other side. “I hope you’re ready to change your mind about Italian. This is from the place I told you about near the Ministry. It will definitely blow your mind.” Draco moved over and let him enter, leading the way to the kitchen in slow measured steps. “Malfoy, are you all right? What happened?”

Draco shook his head and turned the light on in the kitchen. He was very grateful then he’d remembered to clean the groats before leaving for work. “Not feeling very good. It happens sometimes.”

“Oh…”

Draco had to have a very quick and very concise chat with himself, because Potter – a human being – was there, and that meant this was no time to fucking fall apart. Potter _saw_ him. Potter thought he was worth his time, if nothing else. Potter had a purpose for him. And that had to bloody do it, had to be enough, so Draco forced himself to look at him. “What did you bring? Please tell me it’s not pasta.”

Potter smirked. “It’s ravioli, and you’re going to love it. I also brought risotto and some gnocchi. If you don’t lick your fingers after your plate is done, I will clean your house for a whole week.”

Draco pulled two plates from the cupboard and mentally slapped himself into responding. It seemed deceptively easy. “That’s not fair, Potter. You like cleaning.”

“You’re right. Then I’ll… do your laundry for a week. I hate doing laundry, was never any good at it. Sounds good?”

Draco shrugged and sat himself down. “Do you want anything to drink? I’m afraid I only have water or tea.”

Potter filled them two glasses of water and sat beside him. “Do try the ravioli first. Tell me if it’s not the best thing you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

Draco stabbed a piece with his fork and put it carefully in his mouth. He had to be honest; it was delicious, but perhaps not as good as the Indian from last night. It was likely that being so close to utter destruction made it slightly less enjoyable.

“It is very good,” he consented though when the bite disappeared down his throat. “You win again. What a bloody surprise.”

Potter grinned and resumed stuffing his face with pasta. “This is excellent. I always say I should go there more often, but I never do. It was, er, mine and Ginny’s place for a while. Feels weird to go there alone.”

Draco frowned as he thought about the pair of them sitting together, giggling over a glass of wine. Then he pushed that back, because really, he could not spare enough feelings to be _jealous_ of Harry Potter’s past lovers. Even if he was the only person who knew he existed right now. He cleared his throat. “What does she do nowadays?”

“She plays for the Harpies, finally made it to the starting team. I hear she’s doing great. The other Weasleys still talk to me, thank god, so I do catch some updates of her.” There was bitterness in his tone, and Draco could feel himself softening.

“You miss her.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but Potter nodded as though it was one.

“She was a very close friend. Someone I could count on. You may be surprised to hear, but I don’t have too many people like that to go around.”

Draco didn’t have an inkling why Potter would think that should surprise him. “Of course you don’t. When you’ve had the fate of the free world rest on your shoulders, you couldn’t go around trusting too many people. I doubt that’s changed very much since then.”

“No,” Potter sighed, his fork stopping mid-air. “No, it didn’t really. Being Harry Potter doesn’t really help on that account. In some ways, the free world will never _not_ be my problem, you know?”

Draco thought he did. “You can’t stop worrying about something just because it was proclaimed “over”. You don’t just stop feeling responsible. I know I never stopped feeling responsible for what I’ve done in the war.”

Potter wasn’t looking directly at him, so Draco was still able to breathe. Very delicately Potter asked, “Where were you that year? I mean I know all about our Sixth year at Hogwarts. But the next? What happened to you then?”

Draco took his time before answering. “I spent most of it in Hogwarts too, actually. Only on holidays I’d go back to the Manor. And over the summer, of course. I was… very much under the Dark Lord’s thumb, as you can imagine.”

Potter nodded. “I saw a little bit of it. Through his mind. How he made you curse someone.”

There was a very sharp taste of bile in his mouth, and Draco couldn’t take a single bite more. He pushed the plate away from him. “There was that, yes. I think he wanted to demonstrate to me what it meant to be strong. He felt like he was teaching me, I’m sure. I don’t think I did so much learning on my part.”

“When we were there and you wouldn’t recognize us?” Potter didn’t actually bother to complete his question, but Draco understood anyway.

“I knew it was you. Of course I did, I recognized Weasley and Granger immediately. But I couldn’t tell them that, not when I knew what will happen to you. I also gave you my wand, if you remember.”

“Why?”

Draco swallowed slowly. “You were our only chance,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen enough by then to know you had to survive. What he was – what he wanted – I’d seen enough of it by then. Every time I had to use an Unforgivable, under the threat of my parents being hurt instead… I knew it had to happen. That you had to win. You had to, or all of us would have been lost.”

Potter didn’t seem like it was easier for him to hear than it was for Draco to say. “He made you do it. Hurting people. All those things.”

“Yes and no,” Draco said softly, closing his eyes. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry_. “He didn’t make me join, I did it on my own. It was a stupid mistake, the biggest of my life, but it was entirely my own. My father was away, and I wanted to prove to him – I wanted to show him I’m the man he wanted me to be.” His father’s face rose in his memory, gaunt and pale like that last time he saw him. “After that… yes, there was coercion, but still there was a choice. I could always run away, try to fight. I chose not to. I was a coward.”

“You had your mother to look after,” Potter reminded gently, and it was all Draco could do not to hug him, his debilitating fear of being touched be damned. “You were not a coward, Malfoy. You were a child, and you were manipulated by some very twisted people. I don’t blame you for it.”

Draco opened his eyes and stared at him. How can Potter say that to him? And so calmly, too? “You don’t?”

“No. I don’t.”

It was more than he could take; Draco buried his face in his hands and shook for a minute, too wound up to even remember to breathe in and out. To hear Potter of all people, the one person that could ever count, say that he doesn’t blame him… Draco was riddled with blame for so many years. He was consumed by it, deconstructed and built again around it. The words didn’t heal the deep gashes inside him, they didn’t make it all okay, but still… it was an otherworldly experience almost, something pure and weird and so very incredible.

“Malfoy? are you alright?” Potter’s voice was so soft, it could have been a whisper. Draco tried to gather himself.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just… for so long I’ve heard nothing but…” he couldn’t explain it, not even if he wanted to. Potter moved his chair closer to him.

“I know. You’ve heard terrible things from those awful monsters. But they’re not true, Malfoy. Maybe you don’t believe me now, but I hope in time you will learn to accept it.”

Draco sniffled and tilted his head. He wanted to give him something too, had to give something back. “I hope someday you will realize the wizarding world doesn’t need you to take responsibility over it, Potter. That you will be able to let go of that too.” There was silence between them again, but it wasn’t so loaded this time. It was almost tranquil. Draco drew a breath and got to his feet. “Tea?”

They took the cups to the living room, and Potter once again looked at him oddly. “Malfoy, what happened? Why are you walking like that again?”

he considered leveling with him, really he did, he was so fucking out of it. Thankfully it was a little too much for him at the moment. “It’s nothing. My body doesn’t heal so fast now, and every little thing can cause complications. I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Can I have a look? I can try to fix it, maybe.”

“No, thanks.” Draco tried to keep the panic out of his voice. “I would really prefer to let it heal over naturally.”

“All right,” Potter consented, although it was clear he didn’t understand Draco’s refusal. They sipped their tea quietly for a while.

“Where do you live?” Draco asked in a desperate attempt to stir the conversation somewhere else. He’d been wondering that since Potter described it as “that awful house” yesterday.

“Oh, er, here in London. Not too far away, really. Grimmauld Place, it belonged to my godfather. He left it to me.”

“Grimmauld Place?” Draco wondered for a second why it rang a bell, then remembered. “Gods, that terrible place? You actually live there? I was frightened of it as a child. All those dark corridors and severed elf heads.”

Potter shrugged. “It’s not the best of places, no. But it’s close enough to work, or at least, to Floo… and I can’t be arsed to find myself another place. Not when Sirius used to live there, you know.”

Draco stared at him. “So you live there alone? That must be depressing.”

Potter let out a short laugh. “You have no idea. Sometimes Kreacher comes to visit, my house elf, and then it’s even worse. He’s completely off his rocker now. I mean, he's a good elf, and he has a lot of skills, but still. You won’t believe how dreary the place gets sometimes.”

“But you want to stay there, because… that’s where your godfather used to live?”

Potter sighed. He nursed his tea for a bit before taking another sip. “He lived there right before he died,” was the explanation he provided, but Draco’s eyes were still wide with confusion. “He was wanted, you know, by the Ministry. After being wrongfully accused of killing Wormtail.”

“Yes, I remember hearing about it,” Draco said carefully. His father told him about Pettigrew and his connection to the Potters. He had rats turning into people in his nightmares for weeks. 

“So after he broke out of Azkaban he went on to living in Grimmauld. The Order used it as headquarters, and he was sort of stuck there. Imprisoned, I don’t think would be an exaggeration to say. He couldn’t leave because Voldemort knew he was an Animagus, and so he was trapped. And he hated that house. He really, really hated it, and every second in there must have been such torture for him…” he let his voice fall until it was barely audible. Draco felt his heart clenching in his chest.

“So you’re punishing yourself by doing it too? Living in a place you hate because that’s what he’s been through?”

Potter looked at him with eyes that were every bit a reflection of his turmoil. “You make it sound wrong. I’m not trying to punish myself. I’m just trying to… I don’t know. Do right by him.”

Draco sighed, because he knew what guilt and self-laceration felt like, whatever it was Potter thought he was doing. “It won’t help him, you know. You being miserable. There’s nothing for him to gain from it, and you’re not helping anyone by hurting yourself.” This was nothing like his situation. Draco knew very well He _is_ pleased when Draco hurts himself like that.

Potter shook his head, suddenly furious. “You don’t know him. You don’t know what he wants or not. And neither do I, actually, because he’s dead and I hardly even got the chance to get to know him.”

“No, I don’t know him, but I know he loved you. He was your godfather, no? He broke out of Azkaban to save you from Wormtail. And he died to save your life that day in the Ministry.” Draco read so much about that incident after his father went to prison for it, he felt almost like he was there. “So no, I may not know what he wants, but it certainly isn’t this. Unless he was a fucking sadist, which would of course alter the picture completely, I find it hard to believe he would take any pleasure in you suffering that terrible place every single night.”

Potter’s anger crumbled into something much harder to bear, a broken sort of vulnerability. “I didn’t do anything for him. Back then, when I could, I didn’t ask Dumbledore, I didn’t try to fight for him. and then I went and got him killed, and I… I never even got to say sorry. I never got to say how much he meant to me.”

Draco ached to touch him, an altogether terrifying experience, but he held himself back tightly. He drew a very deep breath instead. “He knows. You’re not so great with holding your emotions at bay, Potter. Trust me, if you’ve ever looked into his eyes, he knew how much you cared. Besides... yes, It was a bad situation, but you are not to blame for that. The Dark Lord, Dumbledore - they made their own choices, played you like a little chess piece. You did so much already, gave so much. You don't need to sacrifice yourself anymore.”

Potter was quiet for a moment, and Draco waited, letting his words sink in. He knew it would be difficult to hear, even more difficult to accept. He almost regretted saying it because he was so fucking terrified – but Potter was currently the only person that existed in the world, and Draco would hurt himself if he needed to, if it would help him. Potter who saw him. Who _forgave_ him.

“I should go,” the man said in the end, getting to his feet. Draco’s disappointed gaze followed him up, but he didn’t stand. Potter didn’t need another reminder that he can hardly walk.

“Thanks for bringing the food,” Draco called after him as he took the cups to the kitchen. “It really was good, even if I was a little hesitant. You don’t need to do my laundry. Does it mean I need to do yours?”

It worked; there was a little smile on his face when Potter came back. “Nah, you’re good. I’m glad you enjoyed it, though. I’ll get you the lasagna next time, you’ll be absolutely smitten.” Draco felt an excited pang in his stomach. Not because of the food, but because of the promise it came with, _next time_. He didn’t offend Potter enough for him not to want to come back. Draco would not have to be alone.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Potter went to the door and looked back. “Night, Malfoy. It was nice talking to you. I…” he shook his head, and Draco understood.

“I’m sorry if I was a little tough by the end. I only said it because I thought it’s something you needed to hear. But what do I know, right? I’m just a sad Ex-con Death Eater after all.” He flashed him a smile, and Potter’s face became serious.

“Don’t do that. Don’t make yourself small like that. You’re far more than that.”

It took all the words out of his mouth, and Draco was left gaping. “I – okay,” he said in the end, flabbergasted. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Potter’s hand was on the handle, then he looked back again. “Good night. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Night, Potter.”

He left, and Draco had absolutely no idea what the hell just happened.

***

Exhaustion was a force to be reckoned with, and so Draco didn’t spend the whole night panicking like he imagined he would. Instead he slept, deep and hard on his rug, so deep he didn’t even dream. It was probably the best thing that happened to him in a long while, Potter notwithstanding, because he was also the worst thing that happened to him. In the morning Draco spent exactly three minutes thinking about him – about how he came to the flat last night because he _wanted to spend time with Draco_ , about how he _saw him as a human being_ and about how he _opened up to him, like Draco mattered_. After the third minute he was frantic enough to jump in front of oncoming traffic, and he wasn’t even outside yet, so he simply pushed the matter aside in his mind. Compartmentalization had been one of his most important tools of self-preservation for many years now, and it did not fail him this time either. Draco simply took to being glad Potter was there last night, because he was a little scared to think what would have happened if he didn’t come, and that was it. He didn’t think about it anymore. He didn’t think about anything anymore. The day went on as if by him, and somehow he went through a whole shift at the shop without even noticing.

Tuesday brought with it rain and thunder, and Draco was soaking wet by the time he made it back to the flat. He was still under quite a bit of pain and hardly able to walk, and so he just waddled as fast as his legs would carry him on his way back and tried to avoid being splashed on by cars. It was a miserable, bleak London evening, and Draco was a miserable, bleak man when he stood in the living room, dripping on the carpet. For a moment he considered staying there like that, the ultimate punishment, shivering and most definitely catching pneumonia. But then he reconsidered, fueled by how furious He would be to come back and find Draco in that state, and took a very warm shower that lasted over thirty minutes. By the time he was out, draped in only a towel, there was enough steam to run a sauna.

He did feel better after the shower. As always, he took it with his eyes closed; seeing his naked skin was a big part of what made him violently ill so often. He only undressed in the dark, when he had the option to choose, and when forced he would simply close his eyes. Draco could not bear to see the scars and burns on his almost translucent skin, the blue veins so easy to make out. Whenever he saw himself he felt like a brittle, faulty piece of porcelain that was on the verge of breaking. Always on the verge, infinitely shattering. He hated that feeling more than any other. He hated his own body more than anything.

Draco staggered out of the boiling bathroom and onto the hall, and the change in temperature made his brain slow so he didn’t catch onto the warning signs quick enough. When he did, it was all he could do not to scream his heart out. _He wasn’t alone_. Someone was in the flat other than Draco, and it wasn’t Him, because he would have known His scent anywhere. It didn’t smell like Him, it smelled like – _food_?

His heart was beating so fast, it was hard at first to hear the words spoken softly to him. “Malfoy? shit, Malfoy, I’m sorry – I was knocking and knocking, then I noticed the door was open so I thought I’d just let myself in. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The towel was at serious risk of falling off him, Draco was shaking so bad. “P-potter,” he stuttered, the cold now mixing with the fright and making him shiver even more. “What the…” it took every ounce of willpower still in him not to faint on the spot.

“Yes, it’s me. Bloody hell, Malfoy, you look like shit. Here, take a seat.” Without touching him once, Potter managed to lead him to the sofa somehow, where Draco sat down stiffly. He was starting to be able to put one thought after the other. Of course he’d forgotten to lock the door – idiot Draco, he was so used to having Him there, he didn’t even give it a thought. He needed to concentrate, though. There were several things to worry about at the moment, things he could not let Potter see. However, there was one serious problem that could not be overlooked. He was practically naked, and that brought it near impossible to be able to say or do anything. Right now if Potter told him to do something, anything, Draco was fairly certain he would. He could touch him. He could do whatever he wanted to him. Panic was rising extremely fast: naked and vulnerable was exactly the hotspot for his trauma. He sat and waited for Potter to relieve him.

“Malfoy, are you alright? I’m so sorry I scared you. Please say something.”

“It’s… all right,” Draco said tensely. He shifted a little on the seat uncomfortably. “Potter… may I…” he took a deep breath. Perhaps it would be easier if he closed his eyes? Nope; the moment he did that he transported right out of the flat, and straight into the dark cell. Shit. Shit squared.

“What is it, Malfoy? What’s wrong?”

With immense effort, Draco pulled himself back. Opening his eyes to find the green ones so close was a little disconcerting, but it was far better than the alternative.

“I need to… Potter, will it be okay if… may I go and get dressed?”

There was a short pause in which Draco’s blood thumped so hard in his ears, he wasn’t sure he didn’t miss the reply. But then a nod supplied him the approval he needed, and almost fleeing to the bedroom he threw on the heaviest clothes he had and returned to the living room some five minutes later, clad in enough layers to get him through the winter if he lived in the midst of an icy river.

Potter was still sitting right where he left him, eyes big and sad, hands clasping his thighs with white knuckles. Draco lowered himself into the armchair carefully and studied him for a minute. “So,” he said when it felt safe enough to speak. “Sorry about that. I realize it was a bit odd.”

“You needed my permission,” Potter mumbled softly, averting his gaze to the carpet. “To get dressed. Because I surprised you and you were only in a towel and you needed to get my permission.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s like that sometimes,” he concluded with some confusion. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out. It’s just my own personal trauma rearing its ugly head on occasion.”

Potter’s face conveyed such a deep sense of agony, Draco could feel it without having to look. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in like that. I – I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

Draco was so close to tears he was startled. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Potter. Potter who’s already done so much for him. “Please don’t worry about it. I’m fine, really. Hey, at least now I’ll probably remember to lock the door when I come in.”

A tenuous chuckle escaped Potter’s lips. “Good thing I scared you half to death, then?”

“Yes, very good. Next time let’s do my tendency to leave my hat at the shop. My ears never forgive me when I do that.”

He looked at him now. Potter still seemed absolutely miserable, but he wore a brave little smile that made Draco’s chest hurt. “What’s your plan for that?”

“Hmm, let me see. Why don’t you walk in on me naked there? You could force me to remove my clothes and I’d be as good as done. Or better yet – you could be naked, wearing nothing but the hat. I’m sure that’d get my attention well enough. It doesn’t matter which one of us is naked, really. It works on me either way.”

He said the wrong thing, and he knew it straightaway. The smile was replaced by a pained expression. “Fuck, Malfoy, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

“No,” Draco was confused – how did Potter reach that conclusion when the complete opposite was right? “Potter, you’re not the idiot here. It’s me who’s acting all mad. It’s fine, please, believe me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not acting mad at all – I’m such a pillock – “

“Potter, please, just let it go.”

“I…” He was very reluctant, but then nodded. “All right. If you say so.”

Draco wanted very much to distract him from thinking about it – Draco’s close-to-naked body, covered in flimsy nothing. Very, very much wanted to distract him. Probably more than he wanted anything else at the moment. “Did you have a good day today?”

“Yeah, it was all right,” Potter was obviously not taking the bait. “I just don’t… I can’t believe I could be stupid enough to do – “

“Potter,” Draco raised his voice a touch, and there was heat in his cheeks but he carried on nevertheless, “do shut up about it already. Please. I was a twat, nothing more to it. Now tell me what you did today and stop being such a bloody prat about it.”

Potter looked like he was about to argue, but then he sighed and nodded. “I had a pretty normal day, yeah. Some paperwork to fill in the morning, very boring. Chased this bloke around who was selling illegal potion ingredients – by the way, did you know the flower you keep in the shop is classed as a grade C dangerous plant?”

“Which one?” Draco cocked an eyebrow.

“The white one in the back, thorn apple. Only it wasn’t called that – on the list it appeared as _Datura_ , but my partner is a right git who just loves to know everything, so he told me it’s actually called something else in the UK. Got to tell you it felt pretty good to hit him with a random fact of useless trivia back – I meant to thank you for it, actually. With the whole… I kind of forgot.”

Draco’s face formed a smile without his consent. “You partner is correct. It is a rather dangerous plant – it can cause severe effects if taken as is, which is part of the reason why we don’t keep it in the shop floor. But it does have a powerful effect in healing potions. They say that the same element in the flower’s roots is actually in the tail of an Ouroboros.”

“In the tail of a what now?”

“Ouroboros? I thought you said you listened in Care of Magical Creatures class, Potter?” Draco huffed dramatically, and Potter’s lip twitched. “Ouroboros is the immortal snake found in Egypt,” he continued in his best lecturey-voice, “for many centuries now it’s been considered a symbol of immortality, fertility and the unity of time’s beginning and end. In effect the snake eats its own tail in a never-ending cycle. It doesn’t die. It lives forever and needs for nothing.” He heard Potter’s low whistle.

“That’s mad. A snake that lives forever? Sounds a little dark to me, I have to admit.”

“There’s nothing _dark_ about it,” Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s not like the snake has a choice in all of it. It’s born into this life without its say-so, and it’s doomed to continue on and on. Forever.” Damn, Draco should not have led onto this subject at all. Now he was close to tears again, and he cannot reasonably cry in front of Potter.

Potter seemed to understand why his tone dropped. “It’s trapped?”

To his horror, Draco found his throat choked as he nodded. “In a sense, I suppose, yes.” he breathed in and out a few times and tried to collect himself. “In any case, there’s very few of them about – highly rare, which is probably why you’d never seen one before. I’m sure Hagrid would love to get one in his collection, though. They’re extremely coveted for their magical properties.”

“He wouldn’t care about that,” Potter shook his head fondly. “He would like to have one just because he’d probably find the wretched thing _adorable_.”

Draco laughed. Actually laughed. “Yes, he probably would. Probably try to make it befriend the Blast-Ended-Skrewts. Gods, I hope he doesn’t still keep them. They were an abomination the first time around, but now… the world had seen enough darkness without them.”

Potter’s smile grew a little tense. “Teddy likes snakes too. I mean I don’t mind them – obviously being able to talk to them makes it a lot easier, and I know there’s nothing to fear. It’s just that in my mind when I think snakes, I think of Voldemort. I know it’s not their fault, but… I can’t really get past it.”

“Teddy?” Draco tilted his head, and something cold and hard settled in his chest. “Teddy Lupin?”

“Yeah – do you know him? He’s my godson. I go to visit him every Sunday morning. You can’t even believe how big he’s gotten, it’s unnatural. Dromeda says he’s going to be taller than me any day now. Wouldn’t bet against it, either – Lupin was pretty tall himself.”

That thing in his chest rattled. “Wow, he must be… what, seven years old now?”

“Yep, in April. Did you ever see him?”

Draco nodded slowly. “He’s my cousin – well, once removed. Andromeda Black is my mother’s sister. I’m sure she knows him well.”

Potter bit his lip, evidently pondering whether to say something or not. It took a minute before he made up his mind. “Yeah, actually – I’d seen them together before. She visits her sister often, I gathered.”

It felt like someone pried his chest open with a crowbar, ripped his heart out of it, dipped it in sulfuric acid and then performed an Irish jig on it – only much, much worse. “You – saw her?”

“Yeah, I did. Just the once really, a couple of months ago.” Potter must have misunderstood the expression on Draco’s face, because he looked like he was about to explode with regret. “I should have told you. I’m sorry – I wanted to, but you didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about her, so I didn’t say anything. I’m so sorry.”

Draco had nothing to say for the longest time. “You saw her.” Real-Person-Potter, who knew he existed and treated him as a human being _saw her_ , which was as good a proof as Draco could stomach that she was really alive. “How – how did she look?”

The answer was slow and measured. “Er, all right, I guess. Sad. I don’t know.” Potter drew a deep breath. “She seemed very close to Dromeda. I think it’s good for the both of them, you know. They both lost so much.”

Draco will not, _will not_ , cry in front of Potter. “Oh.”

“Malfoy…” the soft voice was seconds away from making him wail, “you don’t have to – “

“No.” Draco rose to his feet and looked decidedly away. “We’re not going to talk about that, sorry. You brought food, I believe? We should eat it before it gets cold.” They made their way to the kitchen in silence, and Potter spilled the food onto two plates. It was burgers and chips today. Draco was probably the least hungry he ever was in his life, but he forced himself to chew bite after tasteless bite and swallowed heavily. This was all he could do at the moment, and so help him Merlin, he will not talk about his mother right now.

Because he simply couldn’t stand it. Not even a week on his own and his defences were already all over the place. If Potter suggests he speaks to her one more time he might just cave in and do it, and it would get them both killed, and how sorry would he be then? No. _He_ will never allow that. There was so little He required of Draco; only his unyielding and unabated loyalty. And to go to his mother would be to betray Him in every single sense that mattered. Draco knew very well he was not to do that. He was warned enough times, gods be damned. He may be out of his mind – he may by as close as physically possible to breaking apart – he may be well beyond saving – but he will not take his mother down with him. he will not have her hurt any more because of him. And He promised him that if Draco goes down, Narcissa goes down with him. If not by His hands, then for sure by the wizarding community. They will have her arrested and marched off to Azkaban with him and he will never, ever, ever allow that to happen. Never.

“Malfoy, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said all these things. Please forgive me – I feel like such an arse. I’ve been doing it all wrong today, from the fucking beginning, and I… I’m so sorry.”

Draco brought his shocked gaze up to meet the green eyes that stared at him, the very epitome of misery. He completely, completely forgot about Potter, who had been spending the last five minutes of silence mentally beating himself up. He thought Draco was angry with him. _He cared what Draco thought_.

“I’m – of course,” Draco stammered, surprised to his very bones. “Potter, it’s not your fault. You didn’t do this. I’m not mad about you telling me this – I’m glad you’d seen her, really, I am. And I’m glad to hear she has Andromeda to lean on. It’s just so… complicated. I know you don’t really get it, but there’s a lot behind all of this thing that I just can’t… in any case, I appreciate you telling me. Honestly. So much.”

Potter must have seemed a good stone lighter. “Really? You’re not pissed off that I keep bringing her up?”

“No – I mean, I don’t _like_ talking about her, but it’s kind of you to let me know that she’s… I don’t know. Still out there. Even if it does tear my heart out, it’s good to know. And – fuck it, it’s good to have you here. I know the evening started off a little iffy, but I’m really glad you came.”

“You are?” Potter looked as brittle as Draco felt at this moment, and it made his already exhausted heart lurch.

“Of course I am.” He wanted to say more, to explain to Potter how indebted he is to him, how very grateful, but his tongue was on strike and speaking became impossible. Draco hoped Potter can read it in his eyes. He thought perhaps he could, because the green looked a little misty all of a sudden, right before Draco looked away.

“Good. It’s good to hear I haven’t screwed it up entirely by being the usual idiot I so often am.” It sounded like a joke, but Draco wondered if it was. He dared a weak smile.

“It’s exactly that idiot I’m beginning to like, Potter, so don’t go changing too much. I don’t think I could stand a different kind of imbecile bringing me food and cleaning the flat for me and being a fucking saint all the fucking time.” Potter smiled back, and the nervous feeling in Draco’s gut loosened somewhat.

“Shut up, you prat. You hardly even ate your burger. Do you want me to cast a heating charm on it?”

“No, I think I’m done for the night. You can have the rest of it, I see the way you’re eyeing it up. Do they not feed you at work?”

Potter laughed and made fast progress on Draco’s plate. “Not nearly enough for all the running around I do, no.” He burped and patted his stomach fondly. “Ah, that’s more like it.”

Draco laughed. What other choice did he have? Potter looked content now, leaning back on his chair with a relaxed smile on his face, and if Draco doesn’t do something about it _right now_ he will have a very serious problem on his hands. He will have to spend the entire night on groats again, which was something he did not intend to do.

“I should probably go to bed soon,” he said quickly and got to his feet. Potter came up after him, and if he was surprised he didn’t let it show. “My body still needs a good bit of rest, and I think I’ll have an early night. Thanks again for coming by and bringing food, Potter. It was – apart from the near heart-attack, it was great having you around.”

Potter didn’t exactly smile, but he didn’t look so horrified anymore. “Good. I’ll get going, then – I’m pretty beat myself, that arsehole kept us running most of the day, and I didn’t get too much sleep last night.” he stretched and gave a very convincing yawn. “I’ll see you soon?”

There was something in his tone that made Draco desperate to go near him, and so he leaned purposefully against the doorjamb. “Yes. Soon.”

“Excellent. Have a good night, then, and… yeah, sleep well.” He looked adorably flustered. Draco was unable to look at him.

“Night, Potter.” As the door closed he wondered how soon would soon be. He found himself hoping against all hope that it would be really, really soon.


	9. Sharing Is Caring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the rest, but it has some major emotional drama in it and I just could not bear making it any longer. The next ones will go back to 'normal' length (what is normal though, etc., etc.)
> 
> Previous warnings of past abuse and panic attacks still highly relevant.

Soon, it would seem, was not the next evening. Draco spent Wednesday completely on his tod, getting more and more desperate as the minutes wore by. He slept a little on Tuesday after Potter was gone, still exhausted from the previous night, and so felt slightly better in the morning. Thinking to himself he’d be seeing Potter again that evening, Draco was able to go through the working day in relative ease. He wasn’t even tempted to ask about David when he was gone again, and sold flowers with professional disengagement that made his customers leave with more flowers but without a smile. Then as Potter never arrived, Draco found he was getting restless. Still not able to walk very well he paced the living room slowly, feeling the light was too bright and the air was too thick. He needed someone to be there, someone alive to see him in their eyes and make him exist. Without it he was becoming transparent. He was driving himself mad pacing until it was the middle of the night. Then he deposited himself on his knees in his corner, hoping it would alleviate somewhat the terrible feeling he had inside, but to no avail. He didn’t even know if he’s so stressed because Potter didn’t show up, or because of the thought that he might. There was still Him to take into consideration, and Draco could not afford to let himself forget. It would be the very last thing he ever forgot. It would be impossible.

Thursday was slightly worse again. Not being sure if Potter will appear or not, Draco had a tougher time restraining himself at the shop, and he actually sent two customers away empty-handed. It took all of his strength to refrain from shouting his frustration out loud. He somehow made it back to the flat in the evening, without even the patience to cry. He was on his own, _on his own_ on his own, all alone in this world, and it was getting him down unbelievably fast. There was no one to count on but himself now. Well, fucking keep it up, he berated himself. _Do it, then._ Be someone you can count on.

He forced himself into the tub for a flaming-hot shower, the only sort of thing that could help him, and after that he felt a little bit better. Clothed and warm Draco took himself to the living room, sitting rigidly on the sofa. There was no telling when He would be back, and it would be good to have some normalcy till then. In the meantime, when Draco was alone, he would do his best to remind himself that he can be a human again. He would sit on the sofa and not on the floor. Yes; the effect the hot steam had on him was positively emboldening. Draco almost felt like he could try to eat something other than toast on his own. He was already getting to his feet when the knock on the door sent his heart down to his underpants.

“Malfoy, it’s me. I brought some food. Will you let me in?”

Breathlessly he went to the door and opened it. After the evening on his own, Draco had no expectations that Potter would come, and yet there he was holding a paper bag. Draco let him in, feeling his heart doubling its pace, the stress and worry and bloody _joy_ sizzling inside him. Potter was here. Draco was not alone anymore. He trained his eyes on the carpet and waited until he felt strong enough to speak.

“Is everything all right, Malfoy? you look a bit peaky.”

“It’s fine,” Draco waved a hand, still looking down. “It’s just… it’s bloody good to see you, Potter.” This was as much as he could say without breaking down in tears. And however odd it was to think that Potter could make him feel this way, there it was, too clear to deny. Potter was a person and Potter saw him. He thought about Draco and wanted to spend time with him. And if _that_ wasn’t something spectacular, Draco had no idea what would be.

“You too,” Potter said with a very terse smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night. We had a crazy day at the office, and I ended up staying quite late. Sorry about that.”

Draco waved his apology off and led the way to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it. I just – it’s good to have someone here, that’s all.” He pulled a couple of plates and two glasses, filling them with water. “What was the crazy all about?”

Potter took the containers out of the bag and started disposing their contents into the plates. Based on the shape of the boxes, he’d brought Chinese. “Oh, something really stupid. Someone said they spotted Voldemort in Albania.”

“ _What_?” his heart took the next step from his underwear to his socks. He shook himself as the magnitude of the words pressed against his temples. “But it couldn’t be, could it? the Dark Lord is dead.”

Potter nodded and stuffed a forkful of noodles down his throat. “Of course not. Seven years after the war, and the office still gets two sightings of Voldemort a week. People are just scared, and they can’t get their demons out of their heads.” Potter looked at him like he knew how that felt. Draco figured he did.

“If so, why the overtime? If it’s just some loon’s hallucinations?”

Potter shifted uneasily. “It was the loon itself that caught our attention. It was someone who knew him well enough, who has a certain standing in the community. I can’t tell you who, but… let’s just say they had to send a team overseas, and the paperwork alone was a nightmare. They wanted me to go, but I told them enough is enough. I killed him once, well actually – I killed him a bunch of times, but then I killed him one final time – and he’s not coming back. The end.” He sighed and rolled some more noodles around his fork. “Sometimes I think people are just desperate to have him back so they’d have _something_ to fight.”

Draco watched the way his shoulders were pointing downwards, how his eyes were underlined by dark bags. “Do you feel that too? Desperate to fight something?”

“Sometimes,” Potter shrugged, slurping the water extremely noisily. “Sometimes I think it was so much easier when there was just one source of evil, you know? You cut the head of the snake, the body is dead. But now… nothing is as terrible, maybe, as big, but it’s just… you cut a little snake’s head, five more pop up. It’s exhausting.”

Draco nodded. “It’s hard when you don’t know where to expect it from.” Potter’s glance was huge and it hung on him with an almost physical weight. Draco cleared his throat and tried to shift the conversation back to safer waters. “Does it happen to you too? Do you see him sometimes?”

Potter bit his lip in consideration. “I thought I did once. In Diagon Alley, I was on my way to Gringotts when I spotted this tall man, bald and wearing black robes. I followed him around ten minutes before I realized it was just some old wizard out to buy potion ingredients.” He scratched his nose. “And then in my dreams, of course. But I don’t wake up and think they were real or anything. I know the difference.”

Draco sighed and stared at his hands folded in his lap. “I wish I could say the same. The line can be blurry sometimes.” Then, startled, he fished for something else to say. “I used to dream about him every night in seventh year.”

“You did? Really?”

Draco nodded and did not look at him. “Every single night. Snape gave me so much Dreamless Sleep, I probably still reeked of it years later. It didn’t help though. I’d always wake up and know I was dreaming of him.”

“Did he… when you… how was he towards you?”

Draco thought about it for a second. “I think in his own twisted way, he sort of liked me.” This remark was rewarded by the most intense silence Draco has ever encountered. “I mean, he certainly took a lot of his time to train me, so to speak. He always kept me by his side; when I was in the Manor it was impossible to evade him for a minute. It was like he wanted to keep me under his skin. Like I was his apprentice, or his good-luck charm. I don’t know. It was odd.”

Potter swallowed what sounded like an entire bowling ball. “Did he ever…”

The look in his eyes made it unnecessary for him to finish the question. Draco shuddered. “No, of course not. I don’t think he was human enough by then to have any sort of _feelings_ like that. But he was very possessive of me, I’ll give you that. He didn’t like to share me with my parents. Didn’t like it when I had to go back to school. He never said anything, but he didn’t have to. It was obvious.”

“That’s fucking weird, Malfoy. like, super weird.”

Draco nodded. Often he did wonder… “I don’t think I understood it really back then, I just knew it was bizarre. I didn’t comprehend concepts like _possessive_ and _dominating_ when applied to a human object. What I’m saying now I was able to analyze through the experience I later gained in prison. When I understood what it meant to want to consume someone entirely, to own them.” Well, experiences in prison and then some, but there was no reason for him to have to share that, was there now?

Potter was very quiet for a second. “You said you were treated differently there. That you were special.” It was a question, and Draco understood it as such. He had absolutely no desire to answer, or even to acknowledge the topic of discussion, but he was so used to answering without refrain. He curled his sweaty fingers into little balls and stuffed them in his pockets. His plate was still half full.

“I think in the beginning it was because of my father,” he admitted then in a voice that was closer to a whisper. “My guard was his warden when he broke out, back when Dementors still roamed the place. You can imagine his joy to have my father there again, to be able to punish him for causing so much trouble, for bringing slight and scorn upon him. And then when they got me… it was a dream come true. What better way to punish proud, detached Lucius Malfoy than to completely tear apart his only son and heir?” he took a sip of his water then clenched his hand right into a fist again.

“They started off slow. There was so much to teach me, to strip away from me, layer after layer. Everything I thought I was… everything I thought I could be… everything I believed to be true. They tore it all out and cleared space to insert themselves in me. To have me trained, like I told you before. To make me understand that nothing, nothing could ever save me. I think sometime during these months they got sucked into it. Liked it too much, I suppose. And then it stopped being about my father and became just a study in what a man can go through and still live. Sometimes it was a competition between them, sometimes a team effort. It was always with the same goal in mind though. To do the one thing that would finally make me snap.” He closed his eyes, but it was too late to stop the tears from falling. He hadn’t let himself think about it for so long. He was so good. Now it was all crashing down, the walls he’d built, and he didn’t know if he can stop himself if he tried.

“They had to up their level all the time. After a while of the same I became numb, apathetic. And the point of it all was to see the look in my eyes, the utter and complete shock... So it became worse and worse. Gradually I stopped recognizing myself and began to see what they did in me. An experiment. A toy. A mindless, worthless sack of shit.” His fists were getting wet; he dug his fingernails so hard into his flesh that he was drawing blood. “I was younger by decades than the others. I was well known. I was useless enough to actually be stunned by what they could do. Do you see? I was the perfect prize pig for them. And they took away with it to extremes I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t remembered them happening to my own self.”

That was way, way too far, and he was not strong enough to take it. He slid onto the floor, grabbing his knees in his bleeding palms and rocking back and forth, eyes squinted shut and tears streaming down his cheeks. He was not there anymore, he had to remind himself. It was over. He was not there anymore and they could not get to him again. It was over, and he was not theirs anymore. He was nothing… he was nothing… he fell into himself, into that endless dark abyss, and there was nothing to save him… nothing…

A soft voice spoke so close to him he was startled. “You’re alright, Malfoy. It’s okay. You’re safe now. It’s okay.” It was soft, and repetitive, and kept very simple. “You’re alright,” it repeated, somehow even closer. “You’re safe. You’re okay. Nothing can happen to you.”

It took forever, but at some point, the words did start to have meaning. About half a forever later, he began to take them in. Three forevers and a quarter later he began to believe them. _Nothing can happen to me. I am safe. I am okay._

He blinked and pulled up so fast he heard the startled little gasp from next to him before he could really see the details of the room. Potter must have been speaking right into his ear; still, his skin wasn’t buzzing with fright. He didn’t touch him. Unbelievably gratified by that, Draco turned to face him. There were tears in the green eyes, and Draco found that very hard to understand. Potter was crying for _him_? because of what’s happened to him? That was exceedingly strange. The people who knew what happened to him until now used it to get whatever they wanted from him. They never cried for him. They didn’t even feel sorry.

 _Gods, I’m a mess_ , he told himself and closed his eyes. Now was not the time to doubt Him. Now was not the time to have this heartbreaking, soul-crushing realization. He needed quiet, he needed peace, and then maybe he’d be able to breathe properly again. Maybe he would be able… he looked again at Potter, drawing so much consolation just from his _being_ there. He wanted to run to him and to kiss him. He wanted to wrap himself in Potter’s strong arms and break into his wide chest. He wanted to kneel next to him and kiss his boots. He wanted to express it to him somehow, how much it means to him, even if he can’t understand it.

The corners of Potter’s lips tugged upwards. “Are you okay?”

Draco nodded. “Yes. I think so. I… thanks.” It was such an empty remark, so laconic and not even near what he wished to say, but it was all he was able to let out. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” Potter said, shaky smile stabilizing on his face. “Can I make you some tea? Ron always makes me one when I’m like that. I think it’s the closest to god people can get.”

Draco nodded, but his mind was spinning. _When he’s like that_? Does that mean that something like this happens to Potter too? That he is also in his way broken, like Draco? The awe in him was growing into uncomfortable dimensions. Soon he would have to throw up in order to make more room within himself for this wonder.

Some minutes later tea had been made, and Draco received his cup standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands shaking. “Um, should we go to the living room?” Potter seemed like he didn’t quite know how to handle Draco now, like he was something very delicate that he wished to hold with care. He found he didn’t mind that. In some ways he was starved for it. Care… sympathy… they were almost foreign concepts. He nodded and followed Potter to the sofa, sitting beside him and placing the hot cup on the coffee table. They were both silent for a while.

“Does this happen often?” Potter asked finally, absently arranging the glasses on his nose. “This… whatever this was?”

Draco considered a blatant lie, but he was in no condition for it. “Yes. More often recently. Now that we’ve… started talking about it all the time.”

Potter bit his lip as if he was in so much pain and there was no other way to express it. Draco could only stare. “I’m so sorry, Malfoy. I really didn’t mean to do that to you.”

That was absurd, and he knew it. “You didn’t do anything to me. It’s just me. I’m… broken. I’m a mess.”

“You are not a mess,” Potter said, edging closer to him on the couch but still not touching. “And you are not broken unless you decide to be. You are a survivor, you are the strongest person I’d ever met. You are amazing.”

Draco tried at a scoff, but it was very halfhearted. “I am not even enough to be a person anymore, Potter. Alone, I’m just a pile of solid nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Potter shook his head, his voice soft. “You know it’s not true. You are not nothing. You are Draco Malfoy.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?” Draco asked wearily. He was so tired indeed. “I haven’t been him in so long, I don’t even know who he is anymore. I don’t remember his life. I don’t remember his dreams. I hardly remember how it felt to be him. Everything he was, I lost. Everything he had, I lost. Draco Malfoy doesn’t exist anymore, Potter.”

It was obvious he wanted to touch him, and Draco braced himself, but Potter mastered himself and did not move. “No. He is still here. He's right in front of me. He is bruised, yes, and he’s been through a lot, and maybe he feels a little lost. But he’s still you. You are still here. Don’t ever let yourself forget it.”

The words hurt like a whip to his shoulder blade, and Draco had to take some shallow breaths to empty him mind. He didn’t feel up to looking at Potter anymore, not when the green eyes were so full of fucking _warmth_ like that. Warmth he longed for, for such a long time. Warmth he so desperately needed.

“What do you normally do? When you’re having a moment like that, how do you stop it? how do you get back up?”

Draco felt like this was the only chance he had, both to be understood and to save himself from dying in that abyss tonight. He fell to his knees in front of the sofa and looked at Potter expectantly. At first the other man didn’t seem to understand. Slowly, though, something was shifting behind his eyes. In a quick motion he lowered himself to his knees in front of Draco, his eyes full of question. _Like this_? They asked, and Draco’s said, _yes, exactly like that_. He closed his eyes and put his hands together in front of him, and heard Potter do the same. It was the single most bizarre thing that ever happened to him in his life. To be on the floor, kneeling like he usually did, but _not alone_ – to have someone do it with him, share it with him, this pain, his striving for penance – he could not put into words how it made him feel. He could sense Potter’s body next to his, shaking ever so slightly, so warm and close and understanding. If Draco were to die right now, he thought he could be happy. This was the closest to heaven he could ever get. This was the closest to good he could ever feel.

They stayed on their knees for minutes, maybe hours, Draco had no idea. It was an entirely novel thing, to have someone so close to him, not berating or hurting him but rather taking some of the horrible fear on their own shoulders, taking a part of the blame. Draco thought he could stay there forever. Potter was strong and still, a mountain of solid support, and Draco thought that if only he could lean on him, he would finally be okay. It was a desolate, hopeless thought, but still there it was. Potter was… too good to be near him. Too good to be doing this. And yet, here he was, and this he was doing. Draco opened his eyes when the wonder was just too great, and found the green eyes looking right at him. There was no scorn there, no hate or blame, not even pity. Just warmth, just sympathy, understanding. All the air was squeezed right out of Draco’s chest, and for a second he could hear his heartbeat as if it broke in song. It was elation. It was impossible.

“Is this alright?” Potter whispered, and Draco couldn’t even nod anymore. He was too stunned, far too stunned to even make the minutest reaction. If Potter could understand _this_ , though, he was sure to understand everything else; and indeed he seemed to be able to read in Draco’s eyes that it was in fact the right thing to do. They remained like this some more time. Potter’s calm face never once broke. Draco could feel his heart physically expanding in his chest till he was quite concerned it will have to break its ribcage in order to have room.

After a while he just couldn’t take it anymore, this _goodness_ , this total serenity and unspoken understanding between them. He hurried to his feet, wobbling a little, and Potter followed suit with a questioning look again plastered on his face. When Draco took a seat on the sofa he did too, waiting for the silence to be complete before daring to speak again.

“Was that okay? Are you feeling okay now?”

Draco didn’t know what to say, and he wasn’t sure he was not going to betray something very primal and important inside him – something that had to be reserved for Him – so he kept his mouth shut. He bent his head to the floor and counted his breaths until he could think clearly again. “Thank you,” he said, which didn’t even come close to conveying his true meaning. What happened here was nothing short of a miracle. Draco would have lived through his whole life again only to experience it. Or, well, a part of it, at least. He raised his shaky glance to the dark haired man and a wild desire pressed him to do something, anything. Without thinking he took one of Potter’s hands in his own and squeezed. It was warm and a little sweaty and absolutely the best thing he ever felt. Potter looked at him with surprise, no doubt realizing the magnitude of this moment. They sat there in silence until time stopped making any sort of sense and the world probably ceased its spin.


	10. Of Pets and Other Things

That night, Draco did something he hadn’t ever considered doing: he slept on the bed. _His_ bed. Uninvited. For as long as he had been in this flat, Draco never expected to be on the mat other than during intercourse. Then there was that night, so recently but a lifetime ago, when He asked Draco to sleep with him on it. But now Draco did it all by himself. No one told him or asked him to do it. He just _did_. Like a normal, proper human. Like a person. And that was so incredible, so very uncanny, that he had no trouble at all falling asleep.

Waking up he felt stronger than ever, perhaps also due to his back not aching for what must have been the first time in ages, but not solely because of that. What happened last night with Potter – the intimacy they shared, the connection, the way Potter took Draco’s pain and simply joined him in it – it was something beyond words and beyond his comprehension. For so long Draco could only see himself as undeserving – the lowest of the lows, the most horrid and unworthy of them all, but that wasn’t the way Potter saw it. Couldn’t have been – not with how he just fell to his knees beside him and shared it all with him. Like he mattered. Like he was something. So for the first time in forever and ever, Draco felt like there might be some truth to that. Maybe, and it was a very cautious maybe, he really could be something.

It wasn’t amazing, simply because amazing didn’t even come near describing it. Draco took a shower and ate his toast and walked to the shop feeling like he… like he… he had no idea how he felt, only that it was _good_. Draco hadn’t felt good in this life, in the after. It was always bad, very bad or extremely bad. At the best times perhaps it was tolerable. But this was good. It was an unknown territory, which scared him a little, but he could deal with fear. He could deal with anything today. It was a good day.

It lasted until about lunchtime. By one in the afternoon Draco began to feel giddy. He had no idea if Potter will be coming tonight or not. He had no idea when He will be back. He had no idea about anything at all in his life, and it was getting him quite restless. The need for routine was very nearly overwhelming. How long was he meant to be left like this, alone, uncertain? How long was He going to keep away? Surely it couldn’t be _that_ long. In four years they only spent one night apart, and then now all of this? It’s been, what, over a week already? His whole body shook when he thought about Him. Those deep brown eyes that knew all there was to know about him. The cold laughter when Draco fell from his knees, spent, desperate. _You are bad, Draco Malfoy_ , the voices in his head reprimanded, and he shivered in response. I know. I know I am bad. I’m sorry.

Sorry wasn’t going to cut it, and he knew it. By two PM, all his previous lightheartedness was gone like it never even existed, and he seriously began to doubt it. Him, feeling _good_? He didn’t deserve to feel good. He was not a good person, therefore, he was meant to be punished. All day, every day, right? Punishment after punishment until one day he could finally be clean. They made sure he knows that. He was meant to be on his knees, he was meant to hurt, and he wasn’t. How could he hurt himself enough to make it okay?

It was even worse than that, because Draco was meant to be _His_ , and he wasn’t. Well, he was, of course he was, but for almost the entire night he forgot. Well… not forgot precisely – he could never forget – but neglected to consider. That was a crime all on its own. To not think about Him, to let himself stray like that… if He were here, He would have torn him into a new shape. And now that He was gone, that Draco was left to his own guidance, he felt empty and concerned. How was he meant to lead himself, when there was so little of him left? Was there even a him anymore? It was confusing and probably meaningless to even ask. Lord, he needed assistance. He needed to be taken by the hand and shown the way. He needed someone to see him, now, or he would be gone again. Draco did not want to be gone. He hated being gone, and coming back was always such a pain. He could hardly even remember that this morning he woke up feeling refreshed. The events of last night were too unbelievable to be true. Draco must have dreamt that, or hallucinated it, because it couldn’t have _possibly_ happened. For Potter to treat him like an equal? For Potter to want anything to do with him? Draco was beginning to wonder if he’d made up the whole thing in his head. Was Potter ever really in the shop? Did he even exist?

But then that evening, the knock on the door, the smiling green eyes… yes, Potter _did_ exist, and yes, he did care for him. The realization – both that he was there, really there, and that he gave a rat’s arse about Draco – was almost too much to bear, and it took considerable effort not to fall into his arms. Not that Draco wanted to touch him – he never wanted to touch anyone again – but he was so, so relieved, and so, so grateful. Potter must have seen the tumult in him, for his eyes burned soft green flames.

“Malfoy, are you alright? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Draco mumbled, letting him in and accepting from his hands a bag of food. “It’s just that I… I can’t really believe it.”

“Believe what?” Potter chuckled, following him into the kitchen and plopping down to a seat in his usual familiar way that annoyed and exhilarated Draco so.

“I don’t know. That you’re here. That you keep coming back.” He didn’t say, but he thought, _especially after last night_.

“I wanted to come back,” Potter smiled, and it was so bloody endearing that Draco had to look away. “I had fun last night. Well, fun is maybe the wrong word for it, but… it was good. Felt good. To be here with you.”

He would have fallen straight to his knees and kissed the hem of his trousers if he didn’t catch himself just in time. “Thank you for – for that. I don’t think I can tell you how much it meant to me. I…” no, he really couldn’t. Potter made a move like he was about to touch him, but then just reached for the plates and started dishing out. Indian again. Draco’s stomach growled in approval.

“Yeah, I get it. For me too. It was very raw.” He handed Draco a full plate and his smile softened even further. “I got you a chicken Makhani, not spicy. I think you’ll like it. This place is my go-to Indian takeaway, and for good reason.”

There was nothing that could really describe how he felt, so Draco simply nodded and focused hard on not crying. He didn’t want to startle Potter, but he was starved for kindness for the longest fucking time, and each grain of it was close to bringing him down. His walls were so weak. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

And it was a frightening realization, because he understood at that moment that if he kept it up, kept opening to Potter, he would end up telling him it all. _Everything_. Including the parts that he most definitely could not tell. Including the parts that would bring his whole world crashing colorfully down around him. No, he had to be careful. When he put the fork in his mouth and let the taste melt on his tongue, he was distracted enough to allow a small shuddering gasp. Great Merlin, that was good. He hungrily licked his lips and all but dove into the plate.

Potter looked incredibly happy to see Draco enjoying his food, and he was smiling too much to eat his own. Trying to distract him, Draco asked what he got, but he couldn’t have repeated the name. It was a rice dish with lamb and smelled like heaven on earth. Potter offered him a taste, but Draco thought that if he took anything more from him, even the tiniest thing, he would spill all over, and refused. They ate in content silence for some time.

“So I got this interesting new case assigned to me today,” Potter said between gulps of pumpkin juice he’d brought in a carton. “This guy, a collector of rare breeds, he calls himself. More like a lunatic with a death wish, I’d say, but who am I to judge. Anyway, he bought himself a Chimera, and for some bloody reason he thought it’d be a good idea to try and breed it with a Sphinx.”

“No,” Draco’s eyebrows knitted in a grimace. “Who on earth would try something that dangerous?”

“You have no idea. Apparently, the mental case thought he was doing it all under Voldemort's orders. That Voldemort himself asked him to breed a special kind of pet, fit to lie by the feet of the greatest dark wizard in the world.” Potter’s green eyes were laughing, but Draco wasn’t. He suddenly remembered something he’d repressed deep down inside him. Potter continued, oblivious.

“So this man, he’s about ninety years old, yeah? And he started running. Pretty fit, if I’m being honest, took us a good while to catch up to him. And then he tried to hit Dawlish with a curse – I think it was a _Disciplus_ , he must use it a lot on his creatures – and got counter-cursed with an _Incarcerous_ and a couple other curses at the same time, and somehow the combination of them all made him _turn into a dog_!” Potter laughed, a loud ringing sound through the silent kitchen. He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and then sobered up, seeing how unamused Draco was. “I mean, not a full dog. He was fine, too, we had him changed back by the end of the day at St. Mungo’s. But he’d had a fluffy little tail and long, droopy ears and spots down his – Malfoy, are you all right?”

Draco didn’t answer straightaway. He shifted uncomfortably on his bum. “This man, did he have a name?”

Potter looked much more serious now. “I can’t really give it to you. Not while he’s under investigation, at least.”

Draco’s lip curled slightly downwards. “All right, don’t tell me then, just nod if I’m correct. Was his name Shepard? Stanley Shepard?”

Potter nearly spilled his juice all over the table. “What? Do you know him?”

There was tension in the way Draco nodded. A mighty amount of it. “I… yes, I do know him. He came to the Manor a couple of times during the summer before seventh year. He was there to… confer with the Dark Lord.”

Potter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his face. “So he actually did know Voldemort?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Draco trained his eyes on the table. He couldn’t face Potter while saying this. It would be too difficult. “I told you that while I was at the Manor and he was there, he would rarely let me out of his sight. He used to keep me by his side when he took visitors. Used to – have me sit at his feet, sometimes. Not always. But sometimes. And when this man came, Shepard… from the way he spoke, he knew the Dark Lord from way before he became the wizard he was then. I got the impression he was dealing with dangerous creatures, that he was herding them. The Dark Lord…” he bit his lip and hung his head down in shame. He couldn’t do it.

“What is it, Malfoy? Please tell me. What did he do?”

It was too much of an order to ignore, and Draco was nothing if not obedient. “He introduced me to him as… as his pet. He said I was – that I would be – that I was the only pet fit to lie at his feet, as it were. I don’t know what they were speaking of after that; my anxiety was too demanding and I sort of blacked out. I understood then that the Dark Lord intended to keep me. I couldn’t focus on anything more.”

Potter didn’t say anything for a while. “Intended to keep you?”

Draco shivered. There was at least a half of his portion still on his plate, but he lost all ability to swallow. “I knew that he was – interested – I told you of the way he was with me. But I thought it was all a part of my father’s punishment, and then of my own. I didn’t think it would last. And then, the way he presented me, I gathered that… that he didn’t mean to let me go. That after I finished Hogwarts I was to return to him, to be directly under his thumb. That he wanted me there.”

“That fucking bastard.” Potter’s face was intimidating.

“I told you, I didn’t really know what to think of it at the time. I knew he couldn’t – take me, not in that sense, that he wasn’t human enough for that. But I could feel he wanted to… I didn’t know what to call it until Azkaban. I don’t know what it is about me, but I keep attracting the – “ he paused then, horrified at what his traitorous tongue was saying. How _dare_ he speak like that? How _dare_ he insinuate that about Him? Draco shivered wildly, waiting for the upcoming punishment. Surely it was about to come. Surely. He would never be allowed to get away with that.

But it didn’t come. “It’s nothing about you, Malfoy. You didn’t do anything wrong. Your messed up family put you in a place where you were hurt and harmed, and… I just can’t fucking believe they’d do that. How could your parents not have intervened? How did they allow you to be in that position?”

Draco raised his eyes to him. Potter was confused; instead of laying the blame on him, like he should have been doing, he was looking for excuses. Draco smiled at him softly; he was at fault with that same offence too many times before. “No, Potter. It wasn’t their responsibility. It was me, my own stupid actions that led me to be in his possession. Only me… I’m sorry for being such a masochist.” He didn’t mean to blurt out that last sentence, but habit forced it and it was too late to take back now.

Potter’s face was a maze of confusion, hurt and gentleness. “No, Malfoy. You can’t seriously blame yourself for that. You were a child, and you were hurt. I’m sorry. You’re not a masochist. He was just a terrible sadist.”

He shrugged, for what else could he do? He knew he’s not enough to change Potter’s mind. It didn’t truly matter, either, for he knew and had already paid the price for the truth. “I rather think a Chimera-Sphinx would be a better pet than me, anyway. Far deadlier.”

Potter opened his mouth, probably to say something else entirely, but then his expression softened. “I’m not so sure. I remember your stinging hexes, they were pretty bad. Besides, you’d look far better than any desecrated offspring of that unholy union.”

Draco couldn’t say anything to that, because he knew just well enough that his looks were part of what brought him there, to where he was, and it stung far too deep in his chest. He bit his lip. “I don’t…” he felt like a change of subject was necessary. “So do you think there’s any chance he’s telling the truth? About doing it for the Dark Lord?”

Potter shrugged in a faux-careless manner. “He could be having an episode or something, reliving a moment from his past. Or maybe he just went plain mad. Happens to people who knew Voldemort quite often, I noticed.”

“So you don’t think he’s… there’s no way he is…” Draco couldn’t bring himself to say more, but Potter read the tension in his eyes and translated it accordingly.

“No, Malfoy. He’s dead. I watched him die, several times over and then that last one at Hogwarts. There’s no way he survived that. I killed him myself.”

Draco was relieved and bewildered at the same time. “You’ve said that before, that you killed him more than once. What does that mean, exactly? How can one person die more than one time?”

Potter seemed hesitant. “He was using this… thing. To keep himself immortal, he thought. He found a way to have, er, extra lives. Like in a video game.”

“A what?” Draco asked, blushing slightly. He recognized it as a Muggle reference, but that was about it.

“You don’t know what video games are? Right. You’ve not been really living as a Muggle, then. He’s, well… there was this thing he did that sort of preserved his – let’s say life force. So we had to kill all of them first, the little _him_ s, and only then we could kill the actual man. But it was done, and it was over, and he’s certainly dead now.”

“So are you saying there are ways for a wizard to make himself immortal?” Draco asked, aghast. His shock must have registered with Potter.

“Not exactly immortal, but... I mean, yeah, there's this one thing we know of. But it’s kept a pretty good secret and no one in their right mind will try it. Definitely not in the way he has.”

“But, Potter… if he tried one way, how do you know he didn’t try another? That there wasn’t something _else_ keeping him alive all this time, back in the shadows?”

Potter gave it a moment, blowing air in his cheeks, looking adorably chipmunk-ish. “No, I don’t think so. I mean I used to have nightmares about it all the time after the war. That he somehow survived, that there was another way for him, another threat… but no. The body of Lord Voldemort is dead, and his soul – whatever that was – is also. I am certain of it. A hundred percent.”

Draco nodded, although the nervous ticking in his ears hadn’t completely ceased. Thinking of the Dark Lord was something he rarely ever did, and this week was a dose too heavy for his feeble heart. Being his pet was surely not the worst thing in the world, but it was bad enough. True that he’d fallen into some pretty deep holes after that –

“So your boyfriend wasn’t a Muggle, I take it?” Potter asked, clearly trying for a diversion. Draco was grateful.

“No, he was a wizard. Is a wizard. He’s not dead, just… away.”

“Right. But you’re… not together anymore?” the question was careful, Potter’s tone was soft, but the words still tore a hole in his chest. For a moment he couldn’t even bring himself to shake his head.

“It’s complicated,” he said in the end, not feeling braver than that. “He had to leave. And I was… left alone.” Each word was a knife in his heart.

“But if he was a wizard – an English wizard, at least – than he had to have known who you were, no? he knew you were Draco Malfoy, dead aristocrat?” Potter said it with some humor, but Draco didn’t dare laugh. He was too close.

“He recognized my name, yes. He didn’t know me, not personally – He spent most of his life abroad. I think He knew my father, though. He spoke of him once.” The honesty was built-in for him, but it still felt unbelievably stupid to be sharing details of Him, Draco’s sole purpose and atonement.

“I see. He’s older than us, then?”

Draco nodded, and unbidden tears flooded his eyes. He closed them shut. “About ten years older, yes.” He took a shuddery breath. “I’m sorry. It’s all been quite recent. I’ve not really had time to – adjust.”

“Oh,” Potter smacked his lips. “How recent, exactly?”

“I – why? Why do you want to know?” Draco was a hair width away from breaking into a tearful confession, and he had to find a way to stop. Now was not the time to crack. Who knows when He’ll be back?

“Just… when you said you lived here alone, it felt like you were lying. And then when you said you don’t like eating alone, I kind of… I thought there was someone in the picture, and that you weren’t telling me about him. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to go all Auror on you. I was just curious.”

“Right.” There was something that needed to be said, and Draco didn’t know if he quite knew what. “It was all just so new. I wasn’t accustomed to it. I needed to – needed time, I suppose. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I do live here alone, now.”

“Yeah, I know you didn’t,” Potter assured him quickly. “It’s all right, I don’t mind it. I mean, if you live alone or not, if you have a boyfriend or not. It’s not like I – yeah. How long ago was the breakup, then?”

Draco had to look at him now, questioning. “Not long. Can we – please, can we talk about something else? Anything? I have some Azkaban stories I think you will like better.” Draco meant it as a joke, but he felt his own voice hardening as he spoke and saw the green eyes widen. _Bad, bad Draco_.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to push you. I didn’t realize it was quite so sore…” and Draco knew he’d made a mistake, a big one. He should have lied and said something meaningless about Him, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like his heart wasn’t ripped away from his bleeding chest and his world didn't shatter into fragments when He left. Now Potter understood just how torn up he was about it, and it was bad, even if Draco couldn’t really tell why at the moment.

“It’s not. It’s just that I – well – how about you? Are you seeing anyone? I don’t believe I asked.”

Potter looked uncomfortable, which was far better than the way he was all musing and brooding over Draco’s mysterious love life. “Er, no, not really. I don’t have a boyfriend. And I don’t really go out on dates at the moment, with everything that’s going on at work, so…” he gulped down the remainder of his juice and eyed up Draco’s cold plate. “Are you done with that? You can have the leftovers tomorrow for dinner. I mean, if I don’t show up. I’m not sure if I’ll have the time and all, with the new… cases… things.” He must have remembered it would be Saturday, because his face was bright crimson.

Draco got to his feet and cleared the plate into a plastic tub he’d remembered seeing when he sorted the messages in the cabinets. “Yes, thanks. Er, how much do I owe you? For all the food you’ve bought for us. I feel bad. I should be paying you back.”

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” Potter waved him off and was already busing himself with spelling the dishes clean. “I don’t mind getting it. It’s good for me, honestly. I have way too much money I never use, and I don’t particularly like eating alone either.” His cheeks were rosy as he said that, and again something in Draco’s gut reacted instinctively and found it adorable. Damn him and his human body.

“Well you should let me do something for you, then. Not cooking or cleaning, obviously, because I’m rather inept at those departments. Something else.”

Potter opened and closed his mouth several times before settling on, “No, really, that isn’t necessary. I like spending time with you. It’s enough of a reward for me.”

Well, that could not have been true, but Draco was not going to argue. He still had the money from the shop in the safe, and he didn’t have the nerve to take anything from it. In two days it will be Sunday again, and unless a miracle happens and He returns, there’s not going to be a chance in hell he would touch it. And what else could Draco offer Potter? What else did he have? He owned nothing in this flat, nothing in this world. Not even his very self. There was nothing but his time, his pain and his devotion to give, and at least on a general basis, they were all promised to another.

“Tea?” he asked then, lost for other options, and Potter nodded and helped him brew it. Draco used the good kind, _His_ kind, for Potter’s mug. It was a stupid little rebellious act, but it felt necessary. Potter had given him so much already, and the way it worked in this world, he had to give back. He didn’t think he can stomach incurring any further debt.

They sat on the sofa in a more comfortable silence than Draco expected is possible. They chatted about silly things, some of Potter’s closed cases, a project Granger was working on, Weasley’s aversion to formal wear. It was almost pleasant. Draco forgot he can be pleasant.

When Potter was getting ready to leave, he lingered for a moment at the entrance. “Listen, Malfoy, about… about that man. Shepard. I just wanted to say…” he took a breath and widened his stance as if preparing for battle. “You have no reason to worry, okay? Voldemort is dead, and you are perfectly safe. You are not his pet, and you never will be. And – I won’t let anything bad happen to you anymore, all right? I won’t.”

Draco would have laughed were he not completely stumped. _What the?_ “Erm, thanks, Potter. I’ll… keep that in mind.”

He must have sensed his incredulity. “I mean it, really I do. I know a lot of shit has happened to you and that you’ve had to endure… a lot. But I won’t let it happen again. Not in Azkaban, not from Voldemort, not from anyone. I’ll be there. Whatever it is, whatever you need, know you can call me.”

“I… all right,” he said the only thing that made sense. He wasn’t about to flat out call the ridiculous in that statement, was he now? Potter must have known it was utter bollocks too. But he still stared at him, still with that stubborn look in his eyes, all Gryffindor and proud and protective, and it was too hard to stand. “Yes, all right.” Draco hoped his concession would at least make Potter bloody go.

“Good.” He wasn’t wrong. Potter’s smile returned to its natural place and his eyes were normally warm again. “I’m glad. I thought there’d be more – I don’t know – quarreling. But I’m glad you know I mean it.” he made as if to touch Draco on the shoulder, saw the utter terror in his eyes, and mastered himself quickly. He understood, Draco had no doubt; there could be touching between them, but only when it was absolutely necessary, and only by Draco’s initiation. He trusted Potter enough not to touch him on his own accord. It was bizarre, maybe, that he was able to trust him like that, but he did. It felt right, too. Either Draco was a blithering idiot - most likely he was a blithering idiot – or he was right. It didn’t much matter anyway, since if Potter did want to touch him, Draco would never openly defy him or fight. It would just… well, break every little green bud of hope for himself he’d been cultivating, that’s all. Trample it with a big black boot and burn the ground afterwards. But Draco was used to that concept, basically lived inside that feeling, and so he was resigned to accept it as his due.

“Good night, Potter,” he said weakly, trying to control his voice. “Thanks again. It’s been… good. Really.” His own conflict with the concept of _good_ was not forgotten, just pushed gently aside. He will tear himself about it all night, he had no doubt.

“Yeah, me too, I really enjoyed it. Who would have thought that after all these years, it turns out you’re actually a rather amusing person to be around, Draco Malfoy.”

He didn’t know how to accept the compliment, so he grimaced. “I was always hilarious, Harry Potter. It was you who didn’t use to have a sense of humor.”

“Right, yeah, I suppose that’s about it,” Potter graced him with a smile, and something previously cold and hard in Draco melted somewhat. “Well then… good night. Sleep well. I hope to see you soon. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it tomorrow, but I’ll definitely come by Sunday. Sometime in the afternoon? Be there for your… weekly cleaning disaster?”

And it was far, far more than Draco was willing or able to accept. His cheeks flushed a deep red and his head was spinning. “You really don’t have to do that, Potter. I will be okay on my own. You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I told you, I enjoy it.” Now Potter was on the other side of the door, and Draco was left without anything to say. “Good night, Malfoy.”

“Night.”

He wanted to sink to the floor as soon as the door closed, but for some reason he didn’t much feel like it. Instead he went and practiced sitting on the sofa without being watched. It still felt very odd, and he wasn’t sure if it’s even a little right, but he thought Potter would appreciate this gesture. Him acting like a human. Him being real.

Why was he trying to please Potter, though? Potter wasn’t his master. Potter wouldn’t even know. Still, Draco was alone, and He was gods-know where, but certainly not here. Draco needed to offer himself to someone who was _here_ , to someone who could take him. If not… he’d already established alone isn’t good for him.

These thoughts sparked such an incredible terror in him – infidelity in its crudest form, a shift in his allegiance, was simply not a thing Draco could take – and he sank to his knees before the half hour he allotted himself was done. He forced himself to close his eyes to make it worse, and didn’t let himself up until the middle of the night. Then he spent the rest of it rolling on his rug, miserable, confused. He had no idea what to bloody think. Then it was morning and he had to go to work.

***

Saturday had him in enough of a state to smile absently at strangers and frown at the faces he knew. Nothing made sense anymore. David still wasn’t around, and Draco was lost in the sea of what the bloody hell. For that was all he could think of coherently; what the bloody hell? What the bloody hell was going on with his life, with who he was, with how things were meant to be? Draco had known several realities by now. There was his life back when he was the spoilt prince of Slytherin, then his life as a miserable teen in the Dark Lord’s sleeve, then the life of a desperate prisoner abused beyond measure, of a lost parolee, and of a mindless slave, all in order. The life he had now – the what the bloody hell he had now – was as unfamiliar as it was bewildering. He did not get it. He did not like it. He did not want it. Stability, that’s what he needed, what he longed for. Routine. Something with which to pin down those awful, dreadful feelings about to overpower him. Something with which to abate the darkness within. It was too dark to see, now, which meant it was too late. Draco was lost.

But there _was_ a beam of light, and perhaps it only made him more lost. Because how can he trust a light coming from the Savior of the Free World? Someone who’s name was all in caps – irony aside that he never failed to address Him in capital – could never have anything to do with someone as lowly as Draco. Draco did not deserve it, and moreover, he didn’t want it. What he wanted was to roll into a ball until he’s tiny enough not to take up space in the world. And he so, so very much wanted to be seen and taken and cared for, at the very same time. Confusion oozed out of his skin. Draco did not want Potter to save him. He didn’t think Potter can save him. He’d already been saved by him, and he would need to be saved again and again, continuously, until the end of time. The effort was as impossible as it was futile.

He was losing his mind, and he knew it. Potter didn’t come on Saturday, just like he’d promised, and there was no consolation in that. Draco couldn’t help but hope that he will be spared this terrible night on his own. Hope, he decided around nine PM, kneeling in his corner, was a dangerous thing. It got you nowhere, and the only potential it held was for pain. Only pain. And perhaps –

Everything in him stopped still when the doorbell rang. For a moment Draco was scared out of his wits, but then he reconsidered – Potter, it was Potter, he came for him! It was very fortunate he’d been kneeling, and therefore it took him some time to be able to stand; if he hadn’t he would have run to the door and flung it open in a heartbeat. As it were he had to drag himself to the door bit by bit, and that was enough time for the person behind it to speak. Draco’s jaw dropped open and his heart froze over in fear. It wasn’t Potter.

The doorbell rang again, and the voice spoke once more, said the holy name Draco never, ever allowed himself to even think. He had to throw himself against the wall and cover his mouth with both hands so he wouldn’t scream. He recognized that voice. Both from the meetings He had in the flat from time to time – where Draco would be safely stashed in His room for the most part, since otherwise he’d be a complete embarrassment to Him – but also, more importantly, from _then_. The before. Before the war ever began, before the Dark Lord returned. It was one of the men that eventually became his Death Eaters, but had evaded Azkaban somehow. Draco’s heart was five times its normal weight, heavy like lead in his burning chest. He could not bring himself to even blink. He was brainless with terror. If this man decided to barge in – if he just breaks the wards and comes in – Draco would not be able to stop him. He will not be able to do a bloody thing. And he wasn’t certain that this man had much respect for His property. Draco had not been so scared in a long while.

In the end, thank Merlin, the man left. Draco sank back to his wobbly knees, whispering his gratitude to whoever wasn’t listening, and repeating his own kind of prayers. They hurt like a bastard, but they weren’t without their effect. In a short while he was too woebegone to be scared.


	11. Too Brilliant to Be Real

The second Sunday on his own was, impossibly, even weirded than the first. Getting up from his corner and forcing his legs to work was usual enough, but then thinking that Potter will be arriving, that he will – do what exactly, Draco did not know, but that he will do _something_ … he really didn’t know what to make of it. After a very long bath that restored some strength to his abused limbs, Draco tried to tidy up a little. He made the bed look a little more used by tousling the sheets a bit. He tossed some of the food items from the refrigerator since he hadn’t eaten anything but bread (which by now was moldy and had to be thrown too) and the food Potter had been bringing all week. He tried his strength with some cleaning, as well, but after a short while he thought it will be better to just leave it to Potter. The bastard enjoyed it, too. He didn’t want to take away his fun.

Potter arrived when it was still late morning, and Draco had never been happier to see him. He made him and Draco coffees, which they took in the kitchen, while Potter told him about his dinner at Weasley and Granger’s last night. Apparently it was a normal thing for the golden trio, to meet every Saturday night. Draco thought to himself, but didn’t mention, how Potter broke this habit for Draco’s sake the week before.

Apparently they were engaged to be married this spring, and Draco thought it was only about bloody time. In his opinion, Granger was ready to be a married woman practically from the moment she attended Hogwarts, and it was probably for the best it took Weasley a little longer to mature. They were all but draped around each other ever since they’ve left school, at least from what he read (and although the papers – back when he used to get them – weren’t so full of stories of them as they were of Potter, he was still treated to the odd one at least once a week). He expressed his congratulations and asked for Potter to never, ever pass them on. They were on a light, smiley sort of mood, and Draco was feeling antsy with it.

“Want to maybe go for a little shop together? I could fight the evil machine, I’ve had a bit more practice with Muggle electronics. And if it really gives us hassle, I’ll just hex it till it behaves again, easy peasy.”

Potter’s smile was gleaming. Draco could not stop staring. “You don’t have to do that for me, Potter. I’m sure I am capable of getting the groceries by myself, even if I haven’t exactly proved it yet.”

“It’ll be fun – our own little adventure. Come on, I’ll take you to this bakery I’d seen around too. I’ve never tried it, but they have this – I don’t even know what it’s called, this sort of pastry, and it looks delicious. We’ll get the shop first, and then I’ll indulge you to some sweets. Sounds fair?”

“No,” Draco frowned, “but all right, if you insist. Will you let me pay, at least?” he’d taken a fifty from the till last night. Desperate times, right?

“Er, no, I don’t think so. Come on, you know I have far too much money for my own good. I don’t want to become a spoiled little arsehole, sitting on his money all the time. The trick is to spend enough of it while you’re alive, to remind yourself you still live.”

“Sounds like you’re preparing yourself for a very short descent into poverty,” Draco tilted his head, only a tiny bit stung by the spoiled little arsehole dig. He knew he was far from that person now, almost to the point of being a stranger to him. “It will be sad to watch you fall, but I won’t say I told you so. I am far too kind for that.”

Potter laughed and offered Draco his scarf from the coat rack. “If I do run out of money, at least I’ll have the fond memories to keep me warm.”

“Yes, I hear they’re _almost_ as good as a fire and four walls,” Draco said stiffly, wrapping himself up. “Preferably a roof, too. I remember it makes for a distinctive difference.”

“You – when are we talking about, exactly?” Potter asked, his brows furrowing. They were already walking downstairs, and he was taking slow light steps in Draco’s careful pace. It was almost abominable how considerate he was.

“Straight after Azkaban, when I lived by myself on parole. I had a bit of a hard time finding a place that would take me, and when I did, it wasn’t exactly in such a great shape. A bit pricey for the privilege to freeze your arse off with all the rats, I suppose, but I needed an address or I would have been sent back. I was exaggerating, though, it did have a roof. Even if it did leak all the time.”

Potter stopped at the building’s entrance, and Draco was forced into a halt. “How long did you live there?”

“A few months. I didn’t spend too much time in the flat, though, don’t worry. I told you, I worked most of the time. It was just a place to crash into sleep whenever I had a few hours to spare.” Then was his time in Cambridge, which he will never mention to Potter because he couldn’t bear to discuss what will surely come afterwards.

For a very distressing moment, it looked like Potter might actually cry. Draco averted his eyes, filled with shame. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t see someone like _him_ shedding tears over someone like Draco. It was too much. When he spoke, though, Draco was relieved to hear his voice was steady. “I’m so sorry, Malfoy. I wish I’d known at the time. I could have done something to help you.”

“Yes, I don’t know how it didn’t come to mind then,” Draco said, stunned. “I really don’t know why I never turned to the one person who’d hated me long enough so as to base their hatred on my own personality, and not only on my deplorable status.”

“I didn’t hate you,” Potter sounded surprised. “Not then, anyway. As a boy in Hogwarts, sure, I did. I mean, you hated me too. But after the war… of course I didn’t. How could I? I’d seen what was done to you through Voldemort’s eyes. Only a bit of it, but it was enough.”

“So when you saw me at the shop…?” Draco felt strong enough to look at him now. Locks of dark hair shook and his expression was so gentle.

“I didn’t hate you then. Not at all. I was shocked, and a little startled, but I didn’t hate you. I was honestly happy to see you.”

Draco would have jumped into his arms had he not been careful. He knew he couldn’t bear his touch, but the temptation to give Potter this little token of gratitude was powerful. Instead he gave him his sweetest smile, the one he hadn’t used in – Merlin, probably in years. It had the desired effect; Potter all but melted towards him, but still didn’t touch. “I’m glad to know that, Potter. I was – well, I am now. Happy, that is. To be here with you.” 

Potter melted even more. Then he shook his head, still smiling. “All right, then, what are we waiting for? Time to go get our stuff! The pastries will not wait forever!”

They’d gone to the supermarket first, the same one that witnessed Draco’s great humiliation the week before. It was a different experience altogether to be going through it with Potter at his shoulder. Potter who advised him which items to get (and broke into a proper fit of laughter when Draco picked up what turned out to be a plastic tomato soup can toy, which honestly was a bizarre idea and he had no idea why would anyone even make that). Potter who secretly added to the cart, which he rolled around so easily, when he thought Draco wasn’t looking. Potter who returned to the shelves some of the more egregious things Draco absently picked up (“ _you don’t need twelve packets of gravy_ ,” he guaranteed him. “ _Or seven bags of rice. You’re not opening a restaurant, Malfoy.”_ ) Then, as they reached the tills, Potter taught him all he needed to know about the evil machine (apparently you were first meant to stack all your items on the one side, then take them and feed their – did Potter say bar cod? What’s the connection between a pub and a fish? – into the scanner, then place them on the loading area or whatever it was called). It was complicated, far more so than the ancient till in the shop Draco's gotten around to. He whimpered a lot during the explanation, but in the end they made it, and Potter sneakily tucked Draco’s fifty pound note back into his shirt pocket, the little devil. Draco could have kissed him if he weren’t mortified.

After the supermarket, as he promised, Potter took them to the bakery. Draco had never been inside a Muggle one, or at least not in this life, and it was a slightly stressful concept - he disliked being in small, packed places, as the chances he will be accidentally touched increased - but altogether a positive one. The pastries Potter picked, chocolate filled, rich and creamy eclairs, were sublime. They ate them at the bakery, sitting at a little table against the window, watching the passersby and making the odd comment between licking their fingers and laughing. It was brilliant. More than brilliant. It was… it was out of this world, out of this life, unbelievably perfect. Draco almost forgot to hate himself in these bright, shiny moments. Perhaps chocolate really was the answer to everything.

Draco wasn’t a big eater, never had been, and ever since he was sixteen he was reduced to a diet consisting of mostly air. At first he couldn’t eat, because the stress and anxiety filled up his belly better than any food could; then he couldn’t eat because he’d seen and done too much to ever really feel hungry; and then, he couldn’t eat because he wasn’t allowed to. After that shock to his system, Draco had never been able to eat so much. Sometimes He would punish Draco by forcing him to gorge on some food until he was heavy and faint with the struggle. He was prone to believe the damage done to his digestive system could not be repaired, that he would never find joy in food, that he would never again crave it.

He had no idea food could actually be fun. Sitting here with Potter – that was pure fun. There was no nutritional value to these eclairs, there was no reason to get them, no reason but for the hell of it. And even more than the food itself, the experience – sitting in this well-lit, brightly colored room, hearing other people speaking and laughing and living, really living – it was eye-opening. Draco’s head was stuck so far up his arse, that he generally forgot that other people actually existed. The customers in his shop were real enough, most of the time, and David since he returned every day, but other than them… there wasn’t too much that was vivid to him. At least not something that could catch his attention. Of course, His presence blocked most of that off… but there was also him and the way he could never look up anymore after Azkaban.

Well, now he was looking up. He was still frightened, but he wasn’t here alone. Potter was sitting close enough for comfort, not too close to cause alarm, and he was confident and sure in a way Draco couldn’t even dream of being. And he promised him on Friday, hadn’t he? That he wasn’t going to let anything happen to him? as much as he didn’t believe it then – or now – it was still a sweet concept. For a few hours, Draco completely forgot about the man that came to the door last night.

By the time they went back to the building, he was already distracted again. Apparently Potter had bought the ingredients to make pancakes, and he was threatening Draco to cook some for him. Although he protested profusely – hadn’t they _just_ eaten? – Potter was adamant, and Draco had to give in. He didn’t have much experience arguing with men who were as sure of themselves as Potter, who had such steel resolve. Not that he was experienced with arguing, in general. Not anymore, not this version of him. Draco surrendered fast enough, and agreed that after they were done cleaning – emphasis on the _they_ – he would allow the unnecessary and extravagant proceedings in the kitchen to occur, and Potter trumpeted in success. Draco thought he was sweet enough to give him a toothache, food aside. He hoped today would never ever end.

They cleaned together, and it was like nothing Draco had ever done before. It wasn’t like cleaning on his own last week, feeling himself failing harder and harder. And it was definitely not like cleaning with His eyes on him. Potter wasn’t doing it to exercise control, to remind Draco his place or simply to punish him. Instead he did it with him, actually with him, wiping and dusting by hand and throwing the odd spell when he was feeling sneaky. Working silently side by side felt so – so very – Draco had to cut the thought off before he became adulterous in his mind. He could not be thinking so much about Potter. He could not be thinking like _that_ about Potter. Potter was being kind to him, and he was a bloody wonderful wizard, and that will be it. He will not allow himself to develop any sort of emotions here. True, he’d been alone for far too long, and he was all shaky inside. But Draco had to remind himself he was _His_ , only His, and it was too dangerous a line to cross. He did not forget the night on the groats. Thoughts turn into words that turn into actions, and he could not, and was not going to, betray Him for his life.

Thinking about Him made Draco somber, and Potter noticed it. He gave him some space, but after a while there was a palpable tension in the air, and in the end they couldn’t avoid it anymore. “Malfoy, what’s happened? Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Draco answered tersely, sighing. He figured he should find something real enough to say that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Only then did he think of the visitor from last night. “Potter, I… do you think you could do me a favor?”

“Sure, anything. What is it?” Damn that man. He never even hesitated. Who does that, agrees to a favor without even thinking twice? Before even knowing what it was? Who was that good? And that stupid?

“The wards on the door. Do you think you could check them? Make sure they’re intact? That they won’t let anyone in that isn’t – meant to be here?”

Potter studied him for a moment. “Did something happen that made you think about that all of a sudden?”

He didn’t want to lie, so he avoided the question. “My – the man I was with, he did the wards when I moved in here. When He left, I didn’t exactly… well, I don’t have a wand anyway. I was just hoping you could take a look, see that everything is all right.”

“You know you could get a wand, right? That is, if you come back. You could have anything you wanted.”

“Yes, thanks, I’m aware,” Draco wasn’t able to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Just – please check the wards? Please?” Potter shrugged his defeat.

“Okay, yeah, sure. I’ll take a look, see if they need any updating. Who do you want to be allowed in? except for you, obviously?”

Draco had to think for a moment. He couldn’t very well tell Potter to admit Him, but he didn’t think it should matter. _He_ was an incredible wizard, and Potter’s little wards would not be able to stand in His way. “Just you, I suppose. No one else should know I am here. No one else should be granted entry.” That would be enough for now, at least. When He’d be back, He could take care of the security issues. And He will have to protect Draco from His colleagues, at least.

Something in Potter’s expression softened. “All right then, yeah. I’ll do it. Why don’t you go and get started in your bedroom in the meantime? I’ll come by in a few minutes to help you with the bed. I know a fitted sheet is the worst possible thing to do without magic.”

“Thank you.” Draco hoped Potter understood he didn’t just mean for the sheets. From the look in the green eyes, he reckoned he did. Potter nodded, sniffling a little, and Draco retreated before he’d be forced to see something he couldn’t possibly face.

The carpet in the bedroom needed hoovering, and Draco spent some extra time on his rug. He didn’t deserve a lot, that much was true, but he supposed he at least deserved a clean expanse of fabric to lie on. All the while he was battling with himself, fighting this tingling feeling at the bottom of his stomach. He could _not_ be thinking about Potter. He could _not_ let himself. He hoovered the same strip of rug again and again, distracted, bewildered and lost. He could not. By the time he was done Potter came back and spelled the bedsheets off and a new set Draco had given him on. It was a dark blue sheet with golden trims that He liked, but there was a real need behind that choice. Draco had to be reminded of Him, since it was getting a little too slippery on his slope. There were things one had to remember, for failing meant something worse than death. Draco hardly even looked at Potter as they finished up the bedroom and went to clean the living room.

After a while Potter suggested Draco would do his laundry and he will make pancakes, and there was no fighting left in him to protest. He took his sweet time separating the lots by color, fabric, then by who-the-fuck-cares. He needed a clear head. He needed to think. And he needed… Merlin almighty, he needed _Him._ If Draco doesn’t get Him soon, he’ll be in deep trouble. And all this time he had this Potter substitute, and the taste of it was only getting sweeter, the place it filled in his heart warmer… this was dangerous, dangerous territory.

Then he went into the kitchen.

 _Gods bloody damn it_. He didn’t even care for the deliciously sweet scent that spread in the whole room, or the incredible mess Potter left on the counter. It was Potter – the green eyes sparkling with joy, the lighthearted smile plastered on his face, and Draco was smitten. Every single inch of his body quivered in dismay – he can’t, he can’t, he can’t – but it was too late. He was a goner, and damn it to high hell, Potter was beautiful. He’d never seen anything quite so lovely in his life.

Of course, in _this_ life Draco had been practically a toddler, and so he didn’t have much experience. Most of what he did see were hard, cruel things and delight was as rare in them as was compassion. And Potter – Potter was filled with them both, and even more. He was everything good Draco never had, and at this point it didn’t even matter that his heart was torn or that he was His or that he was not even a complete person. Draco realized that it was far too late for any sort of precautions. He was long gone.

Potter set the table and poured a lake of syrup on his stack of golden-browns, handing it to Draco with a grin. “Help yourself,” he said, and Draco did. He really did. The flavor was far too sugary in his mouth, and he could barely swallow a thing, but he ate. His stomach was rumbling with dissent, but he ate. His heart was singing with joy and fright, and he ate. How could he not? It was what Potter wanted. He could never say no to him if he tried.

It was heavy and superfluous and delicious. Potter was smiling and telling him this story about him and Weasley trying to bake a cake for Granger’s birthday. Apparently they weren’t bright enough to distinguish between salt and sugar, which was really not much of a surprise, and the cake turned out to be a disaster. Potter laughed so hard when he described Granger’s face when she bit into it, that he was actually tearing up. Draco couldn’t help it. He laughed too. Potter’s happiness was infectious, and Draco just wanted to be close to it, to be a part of it. It would have meant the world to him if he succeeded. He was such a sucker for a proper smile.

“Remind me not to let you bake a cake in the future,” he said, unable not to smile back. “Although I do have to admit you did a fairly good job on these. Nine out of ten.”

Potter made an insulted face. “Nine? When have you ever eaten better pancakes than these, Malfoy?”

Draco shook his head, beaming. “I haven’t. I’ve never had them before. Something this sticky and messy? My father would've never allowed it in our dining room. I didn’t give you a ten because perfection is something you need to strive for, Potter. It’d be a good lesson for you. You’re far too lax about these things.”

The pouting looked unbelievably cute, and Draco’s heart made a crunchy sound as it burst. “I am not lax about anything. Besides, what about Hogwarts? Haven’t you had pancakes there?”

Draco gave him a look of total horror. “Are you mad? Of course I didn’t. I kept a very rigid diet, as a boy in my stature was meant to.” It was like speaking of ancient history, a myth from a different world. It nearly didn’t hurt at all. It was almost exhilarating, talking about it to Potter, who had actually _known_ him back then.

“What? So what did you eat?” It was a good thing Potter was still laughing, because it enabled Draco to roll his eyes without shivering in fear.

“Not terribly astute for an Auror, are you? I’ve basically had the same breakfast every morning for six years. Hell, I can tell you what you’ve had for breakfast back then.”

“You can? Let’s hear it, then.” The challenge in those green eyes made for something pleasant in Draco’s gut. There was a little bead of syrup in the corner of Potter’s mouth, and Draco wanted to lick it clean. He grimaced. Brainless glee was a dangerous feeling for him.

“Let’s see… you always had scrambled eggs, never an omelet. You’d have toast with raspberry jam and drink an incredibly strong tea. What else? you hated kippers, you never drank coffee, and on the days when they served French toast you’d have at least half a dozen pieces. With tomato sauce, which I personally found revolting. And when they had pancakes you’d put way too much butter and syrup and be sticky all through the morning with it.” He gestured with his fork to Potter’s plate, presenting the very picture he was describing.

Potter’s jaw dropped to his chest. “What the hell? How do you know all that?”

“I just observed, Potter. As simple as that.” Actually, it wasn’t so simple; Draco was fairly surprised with himself for remembering so many details of a life he barely even recognized anymore. He didn’t let it show.

“But – I mean, I’ve been observing you for six years too, and I have no idea what you used to have.”

“That’s because you have the observational skills of a blind Flobberworm,” Draco offered lightly. “I do hope you pay better attention now than you had then. I hear it’s rather an important trait for an Auror and all.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “What was it, then? What did you have every morning like the noble son of an arsehole lord that you were?”

“Very simple. Fried eggs, beans, buttered toast and a mild tea. What else would I have had? I am not a savage.” The shock of the words out of his mouth almost made him gag; he referred to the present tense, as if he was that person. The offence was too big to leave unattended. “I mean… I wasn’t… never mind. I’m sorry.”

The green eyes narrowed in question. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“Just how I… I shouldn’t say all these things. I know that. I am not that boy anymore, and… I shouldn’t have poked fun at you, either. I was out of line. I apologize.” Draco didn’t feel brave enough to meet his gaze, and he fixed his stare on the still full plate under his chin. This was something he was bloody well meant to know by now, one of the very first rules he’d understood. How could he be so careless? His own stupidity was astounding.

“Malfoy…” Potter sounded exasperated, and Draco winced. “You have nothing to apologize for. I totally deserved that dig, too. I should have paid more attention to many things back then, I was just a little preoccupied with… well, trying not to die and all. And even if a lot has happened to you, you’re still – I mean, you will always be that boy. He’s always going to be a part of you.”

Draco didn’t comment about that last remark, because there was absolutely no chance Potter would understand. “In any case, I should not have said that. You are observant, naturally. You notice things all the time. And you’re the only one who noticed me in a long while, so… I don’t really get to say that to you.”

The movement from Potter’s chair suggested he was about to touch him, and Draco couldn’t breathe, but the hand he expected never came. “First of all, you get to say anything you want, all right? I like that you make fun of me. It’s far too often that people don’t really say what they want to me because they are scared or starstruck or whatever. And… I’m glad that I did notice you.” the silence after that was very uncomfortable, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to say anything more, so it was Potter who had to break it again. “So do you still have that for breakfast?”

It took Draco a moment to remember what they were talking about. He tried not to show the nausea he felt. “Er, no. I don’t eat so much in the mornings now. A piece of toast maybe, that’s about it.” Potter didn’t ask any more about it, which was good, because Draco really didn’t want to hurl the brunch Potter slaved over.

The atmosphere was a little calmer now. “Me too, but normally because I can’t be bothered to wake up earlier to cook for myself. I have to be at work by seven most days, and it’s way too early to go about making serious food. So I have a big lunch, and that fills the spot. The food at the canteen isn’t incredible, but it’s manageable. And at least Ron is there to suffer with me.”

Draco sighed longingly. “It sounds like you have a very strict routine.”

Potter caught the edge to his tone. “Yeah, I suppose I do. Don’t you?”

It hurt a little to admit it. “I used to. Back when… back when He was here, my life would be pretty structured. But now that I’m alone, it’s all very… I miss having that. Stability.”

Potter gave him a look as if Draco personally accused him, and he was an inch from saying he was sorry, if his expression was anything to judge by. He thought better of it, though, and tapped the table a few times trying to find the words. “I get that, yeah. Sometimes I hate it, having a routine, needing to be in a certain place at a certain time, not being able to… you know. Be free. But when you don’t have it – back during the war, Ron and Hermione and I, we were all over the country looking for Ho- for those pieces of Voldemort’s life force that I told you about. Having no stability nearly killed us.”

Draco swallowed around a lump in his throat. It really was so hard. “I feel like…” no, he couldn’t really get away with saying anything like that. How he was desperate for someone here with him, even if the one person he could have wanted nothing more than to hurt him. How he was desperate to be hurt.

“I know,” Potter said, and perhaps he did. Draco gave him a sad smile.

“At least now I know how pancakes taste,” he said and pushed the plate away from him. “And when I’m able to eat again – let’s say in about a week’s time – I would love to have them again sometime. You are quite the cook.”

The green eyes lit up. “You have no idea really. I am an amazing cook. Wait until I’ve made you a proper dinner once, then you’ll see. I’m sure you won’t be giving me a nine then.”

The promise was almost better than the smile. “We shall see, Potter.” He couldn’t let himself hope.

When Potter left that day Draco didn’t even think kneeling was enough. He cut ten circles into his thighs with the sharpest knife in the kitchen, one for every day He was away. By the time he was finished he’d lost so much blood, he fainted. Then when he awoke he dragged himself to his corner, made himself strip and kneeled until the middle of the night. He was already lost, so perhaps all this punishment was futile, since nothing could really redeem him now. The way he felt when Potter was around was definite betrayal. Draco hung his head down in shame and bit his lip until it bled. He was betraying Him, and it was so much worse than bad. He couldn’t possibly punish himself enough, though. Not by himself. When He’d return…

It was the first night Draco had been more scared of His return than looking forward to it.

***

Potter kept coming by every single night. Perhaps it was because he really did understand Draco’s need for routine, or because he knew how tough it was for him to be alone, or maybe it was something else. _Maybe he’s just as lonely as I am. Maybe he needs this, too_.

He was kind, and bright, easily entertained and endlessly sweet. Draco couldn’t believe it every time he opened the door and there he was, always bringing a different bag of takeaway food, grinning and chatty and warm. So bloody warm. Draco knew he was fucked, absolutely _fucked_ , and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing. When Potter knocked he opened – the door, his heart, anything. Whatever he’d ask for. Draco was very much the type of person to develop a… well, a slightly obsessive fixation on someone, and Potter was misfortunate enough to fall into this category of being someone. Because Draco had no one else. He just had no one else.

Of course, the way he felt about Potter had nothing to do with Him. Draco still loved Him as much as he could, as he always will. He was still loyal and His in every single way. But… and there was a but now, which was the root of the problem. A bloody but. As far as he was concerned, a but was the equivalent of a knife in his chest. He will have to pay for it, oh Merlin will he have to. A price heftier than he can probably imagine. Something truly awful.

But there was nothing he could have done. _He_ was gone for two weeks now, and being alone made Draco crazy, and crazy made him do _that_. Of course he threw himself over the only person who knew he existed. Unstable and perpetually in the need of someone to lean on, Draco had to imprint on some reliable force. And Potter was just there. It wasn’t love, he told himself whenever he’d listen. It was need, dependency. The moment He will be back it will be gone. It was all that kept him from losing his bloody mind.

Then, on Wednesday, he received a letter. It was a small brown owl that zoomed into the shop and almost collided into a customer just leaving. Draco was startled – he didn’t receive letters in forever, and he had no idea who it could be from. Only his name was written on the envelope, and so he opened it with trembling fingers and stared at the parchment for a good minute before being able to take in the words.

_My Dearest Draco,_

_Happy Valentine’s, my love. I trust all is going well with what I’ve asked of you._

_I know it must be hard, but you have to remain strong. Remember, Draco, that you are mine. Remember you always will be. Soon I will be back and nothing will stand in our way ever again._

_It may be difficult to admit, but… I miss you so terribly. I should imagine you feel the same. You are my whole heart, Draco, the most important thing in the world to me. Know that everything I do, it is always for you._

_With all of my love,_

_M_

Draco pressed the letter to his chest, where it got caught in the tracks of his tears. Fuck. _His Draco_.

That night he did not open the door to Potter’s insistent knocking. He was too busy crying himself to sleep on his rug, warped in the worst panic attack he’d ever, ever had in his life. Potter must have understood, since he didn’t come on Thursday either, nor on Friday. Draco thought it was probably best. He didn’t even go to the shop those days – just stayed on the floor and hurt himself in any way that was possible, because he needed, he _needed_. No punishment would be enough. Nothing ever could.

There was another visit from one of His colleagues on Friday, and Draco wobbled on his knees in his corner until the man had gone, cursing out loud. _One day,_ he knew, _one of them will find a way to enter, and they will hurt me_. For he knew without a doubt that without His protection, Draco would be lost. The men will take him, or he will find his way back to Azkaban. Draco needed Him for many things, but this was the most paramount: His protection was the only thing keeping Draco alive. He didn’t treasure it as much as he relied on it, and now… two weeks and counting on his own…

It took until Saturday for him to remember the other part of the letter, the one he’d so far ignored. The thing He’d asked of him. That had to do with Potter, and therefore in order to achieve it, he can’t barricade himself in this flat and hope to die. He had to go out there and – and – face it.

And so he dragged himself to the shop that morning with the decision he will not let anything, _anything_ , deter him again. His Draco. Always His Draco.


	12. Advanced State of Warfare

Draco dreamed of a river.

No, not a river – perhaps a stream; the more he looked at it, the smaller it got, until it was only a faint blue line snaking off in the distance. Draco tried, but couldn’t see its end. It had no end. He looked around – there was something eerie and unsettling about the whole place, especially with the thick fog covering the banks either side. It somehow made him feellt strangely exposed.

Shrugging, he followed the path made by the stream. There was something in the water, glimmering and dangerous under the surface, and Draco did not want to know what it was. A deep sense of apprehension stole over him – where is he? What is this place? Squinting his eyes he tried to focus, but nothing could be seen behind the fog. Oh well. He kept walking.

The air was heavy with a sickly, sweet smell, and it took a while for Draco to realize there was something in it. Floating about, was it – feathers? He tried to catch one, but as soon as he had it, the tender thing combusted into flame on his open palm. Draco didn’t know why, but it made him infinitely sad.

Only then did he actually notice his hands. There was something on them, sticky and unpleasant and red. Hissing with surprise he leaned to wash it in the stream, but what he saw there made him freeze on the spot. The thing under the water, he could make it out clearly now. It was bones. Countless, shapeless, colorless bones lining the bottom of the stream, and Draco screamed, but no voice came out of his mouth. He felt trapped.

His shoes made a squelchy sound as he ran, but there was nowhere to go; the water went on forever, he knew. There was no beginning and no end. But as he was thinking there was no escape, falling to his knees in the middle of the stream, the fog began to clear. What it revealed stole the very breath from him.

There, on his right, so vivid and lush; a meadow, green-green in the most thrilling of ways, every blade of grass sparkling and humming softly with life. Draco knew instantly he’d never been there before, but he thought he might like to go. It looked so calm. He had this crazy thought that maybe if he lay there, just for a moment, the ground will be soft and warm and he could rest.

On the other side there was no vegetation, nothing to cover the rich, deep brown of the earth. It was bare and basic and heartbreakingly familiar. There were lines in the ground, old and sacred, and Draco knew their meaning. There was comfort in that. He thought that if he lay there, just for a moment, the dirt will give him the perfect cover, and he will be safe.

Draco brushed a feather out of his eyes. The downpour was getting heavier now; not just feathers but flower petals too, white and purple and delicate blue. He named them in his heart; thorn apple, vervain, fluxweed… he wanted to cry and had no idea why.

The two banks sat equally distant, both unreachable and at his very fingertips. Every single detail was thrown into sharp relief; Draco could see each line and curve on the left, every flutter of movement on the right, bees and ants and shiny black beetles scurrying about. It was frighteningly out of place here, in this grey world of the stream. Draco was scared. He wanted to escape, but the knees of his jeans were soaking wet, and he was doomed to remain there forever.

This was stupid. Draco couldn’t stay in the stream; the water was rising quickly, impossibly so, and soon he’d be up to his chest in it. The most absurd part was that he knew what he had to do. He could not stay in the middle, for here in the middle he was neither calm nor safe. Here in the middle he was falling – floundering –

Higher and higher the water rose, roaring, gushing, frothing, and Draco was swept up and down and left and right, into the bones, part of the bones… he screamed and swallowed frantic gulps, salty, dark, burning in his throat… He couldn’t swim, never learned how… his head was submerged and he couldn’t breathe…

The water was thick and heavy and a hysterical thought went through him that it wasn’t water at all – it was blood – he had to get away from there – he couldn’t get away – it was a snake, holding him down, a snake of red eyes - and he was doomed, he was doomed, he was doomed…

Draco hit his head against the coffee table’s leg and was suddenly awake. It wasn’t much better.

He was at war. For days now he was at war. One would think that by now he’d be used to it, a seasoned veteran, but he was just bloody exhausted. This one wasn’t altogether different than battles he’d fought in the past. It revolved around the same principles; loyalty, redemption, obligation. His fucking tendency to destroy any and every good thing he had. The sick way he couldn’t even stick to his own bloody decisions. How pathetic, how weak he was, and how he was always spinning just outside of control, with no chance of ever really grabbing it.

It was maddening. Days, days had gone by and _that_ cruel voice never ceased for a minute in his head. He got no sleep, only brief moments of restless shut-eyes. He got no respite. He got fucking nothing, only the constant, mind-numbing, infuriating bickering. Back and forth and back and forth he drove himself crazy, and it took all of his strength to somehow carry on. The line was so thin between sanity and – the other option – and Draco had terrible balance. He was standing on it with one foot only, flailing hysterically. He’d fall, he was going to fall, and nothing will break it, ever!

There was nothing he could do now. The past few days were brutal, and his body was beat. His threshold – previously impressive if not appalling – stood very close to zero now. The punishment he intended for himself would simply be a no-go. He was a mess, an utter mess, and it hurt in places he didn’t even think it could. Like the bottom part of his shin, for some reason, and his lower back, and his eyeballs... He was losing it, losing it, going down –

He couldn’t take it anymore. Simply, literally, figuratively, whateverly. He could not take it any fucking longer. Draco was sick of it. Sick of it all. The cold voice, the battles, the pain, the hatred, the weakness, the dark. He’s been seeped in it for so long. He’s been _driving himself mad_ with it for so long. But it kept going, onwards, onwards, soldiers clad in iron wielding swords and he was just so very tired.

He only lasted thirty minutes in the shop before he fled back to the flat. It wasn’t much, especially considering the fact it took him an hour to make the way there and back. An hour each way – for each step was a bloody battle and the street was a warzone and he was scared, frightened, horrified. There was blood everywhere. There was gore everywhere. And it all was just inside his head, all of it, which was perhaps the most terrifying part.

The dark room wasn’t dark enough, but he couldn’t hope to get up and turn off the one light. He kept it on for days now because if it was off there was really no telling how he’d end up. Already he was at such a state. Already he was barking and breaking and – and –

Urgh. Enough, enough, enough. He’d had _enough_. He fought enough. He’d seen enough. He’d done enough. _He had had enough._ But enough was never enough, and then the word enough lost all meaning to him, and he started to question if it was even real. Was it ever a concept? It seemed a ridiculous one. How would one decide when it was reached? And who the hell said there was ever a limit? He sure did not have one. Draco could go as low as he pleased, because this was what he deserved and what he knew, and therefore had to be right.

He was beyond exhausted, and there was nothing about any of this that was right. His own head declared open war on him, and that bastard played dirty. Draco rapped long fingers against his temples, begging. Just stop it. Just stop.

He heaved the longest sigh and somehow pulled himself up. He knew, obviously, what he had to do. He knew so very well what was the only thing he could do. The thing was… no, there was no _thing_. Draco closed his eyes and nearly slapped himself. _Nothing_. That’s what there was. Not a fucking thing. In a desperate attempt at a distraction, Draco tried to think of the dream. What was it that he saw? It felt important. Like there was something, some realization there. Like he knew something… but no, it was gone, trickled right between his fingers till all he could hold on to was the urgent sense of dread. Fantastic. Just what he needed. More fucking dread added to the mixture, because he was doing so bloody well until now, not at all unraveling. He was such a stupid, stupid, stupid man with a stupid plan and a stupid, unfaithful, worthless little heart that was so heavy it was a struggle to remain standing.

 _Understatement of the year_ , the cold voice said, and Draco was instantly and very violently ill all over the carpet. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to get out somehow. If he could slice his head open and cut the voice out with a knife, he’d do it. If he had to rip out his eye, reach into his brain and _pull_ , he’d do it. War wasn’t pretty, and they were already at quite the advanced state.

And it wasn’t even the worst part yet. There was so much work to do, so much to prepare before then. Draco had to find resolve within himself and he quite frankly had no idea where the fuck it could be. He needed to strengthen the battlements and arm the troops and ready the bloody attack, but his faith in himself was as tiny as a button and he could never find buttons when he needed them.

There was another option, though. No buttons. Taking off the offensive, buttonless shirt and being naked. Then death, green and serene and inviting. He eyed the bracelet until it nearly caught fire, but then huffed and looked away. No. There was no other option. There was only one thing to do and he will bloody well do it because he had no other fucking choice. Potter was – Potter was nothing compared to Him. Potter would never love him like He does. Potter couldn’t, and Draco would never offer. Potter was amazing, but he could never be anything to Draco, and he could never replace the burning, holy place He took inside him. Why would he even want to? So Draco had to fight. He was so weary, because he’d already been fighting himself for days, but now he had to open a second front against Potter. There was simply no alternative. However sorry he may feel –

No, not sorry, not for himself, not for Potter, not for anyone. Draco had one purpose and one only, and it was Him, always Him. There was no confusion about that fact, not anymore. Not even if the voice screamed and tore his head from the inside. Not even if his very essence was tattered and shaky. _You’re a worthless, useless piece of garbage. A filthy fucking whore._

“Enough,” Draco mumbled, swatting an invisible fly off his face. “Enough, enough, I know.” He did know. He thought. No, he definitely did. He supposed. This was a nightmare.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Just couldn’t. Death would be better than this. Anything would be better than this, the tug of war between his ears, this restless nothing that consumed him. _You are nothing_. How bloody novel. _Your smart mouth will get you nowhere good, Draco Malfoy._ Nowhere was good though, nowhere was ever good. _Of course not. You don’t deserve good_. He fucking **knows**. _Then why aren’t you on your knees?_ Because he can’t, he can’t anymore. He was so tired. _You should be sorry_. He was sorry. _More sorry than that._ He was. _More._

Fuck.

Then there was a knock on the door and he was startled enough to shriek before he remembered to be quiet. “Malfoy?” he heard from the other side. Oh no.

No, no, this couldn’t be happening, not now. Wasn’t Saturday the wretched trio’s sacred night? he wasn’t ready yet! He thought he’ll have all night to work on himself, to steel himself, to teach himself somehow – but there was no time now, no time at all. He’s not strong enough, he can’t be trusted, and this was just so bloody…

Breathlessly he opened the door to find a windswept Potter, whose sight he could strictly not stand. Wringing his hands nervously he followed Draco, who retreated into the living room for lack of a better battlefield. He avidly refused to look at his damned green eyes. They stood there for a moment, and the tension was practically solid.

“Malfoy, I’m…” Potter broke first, and Draco readied himself – here comes the first strike – “I’m so sorry.”

The bastard took him by complete surprise. Draco’s carefully crafted answer (if by carefully crafted one could mean ‘half-arsed and incredibly inadequate’) was taken right out of his lips. He expected Potter to be angry. He thought he’d yell, curse, demand an explanation. An apology? He didn’t see that one coming in a million years.

“What for?” he asked eventually, bemused.

“I never should have disappeared on you like that. I – fuck, I’m so sorry, you have to believe me. I can’t even tell you how bad, I – I didn’t know if I can control myself, and I didn’t want to scare you. I’m so, so sorry.”

That did not help clarify things at all. “Potter – “

“Please, you have to hear me out. Please. I know I was such a git, I can’t believe myself. I didn’t even know if I was safe enough now, but I had to come, had to tell you that you didn’t do anything wrong or something – “

“Will you just sit down?” Draco spat, on the verge of panic. He had no choice but to look at Potter now, and what he saw rattled his very core. Puffy-eyed, deathly-pale, trembling-lipped, Potter was an absolute mess. “What the hell are you talking about?”

They both took a seat on either side of the sofa, and Draco found it harder and harder to look at him. His whole mind was a terrifying, glossy sort of chaos. Potter’s hands never ceased moving frantically in his lap. “I saw him.”

Everything in Draco went quiet. Even the voice died down. How was this possible? Does Potter even know what He looks like? “You saw…?”

“Rutgrass. I saw him in the Ministry. I was called to be on this meeting about the transportation of some high-risk inmates abroad – this Albanian group who allegedly was in contact with – anyway, I went, and there he was, talking to this guard. I didn’t recognize him immediately, but then they all introduced themselves and… Fuck, Draco. I couldn’t sit there in the room with him. I wanted to… I couldn’t look him in the eye.”

Draco’s heart did a little twist and landed awkwardly around his navel. He blinked at the speed of light. He didn’t even know which part was worse; Potter meeting Rutgrass, Potter reacting to him like that, or Potter using his given name. All concepts felt equally sinister. “What did you do?” he asked in a strained little whisper.

“What could I do?” Potter’s voice was so defeated. His melancholy eyes were a bloody war crime, of that Draco was sure. “I left. I couldn’t stay there another minute with him. That _monster_. To see him just – just laughing and smiling like a – I wanted to hurt him, Draco. I wanted to break his bloody face. It was all I could do to stop myself.”

Draco didn’t trust himself enough to close his eyes, so he simply looked away. “Oh, gods, Potter – “

“Why did they do that to you?” by the way he sounded Potter was dangerously close to crying, the danger lying mostly in that if he started, Draco would surely break. His fighting tactics were superb. “ _How_ could they? He was just sitting there, Draco. Like he never did anything wrong in his life. Like he never forced a seventeen year old to his fucking knees so he could – could – “

“It’s over,” Draco said, unsure for whose benefit. “What they did, it’s over. They can’t hurt me anymore.”

“But how can that be enough? I don’t mean to… I’m not judging you, all right, it’s just that… I couldn’t sleep since Wednesday. I was a bloody wreck. I was just so _angry_. Thinking that they’re out there, that they get to just carry on, and you’re – you’re – “ Draco didn’t know what to do, he just didn’t know. This was impossible. Potter was a wreck and it was because of him, because of Draco that he hurt. Because he cared about him. It was simply inconceivable. But then he caught on to what he’d actually said.

“Wednesday? Wait, so you weren’t here on Wednesday?”

“No, I couldn’t come. I was so furious – I just holed up at Grimmauld and told everyone to piss off. Draco, I’m so sorry.” This was a startling discovery. Had Draco been so out of sorts that he didn’t recognize the men’s knocking? But there was something else to focus on here, something far more important and far more dangerous; this was war, man!

“I still don’t understand what you’re apologizing for,” he bit out coolly. Potter bent his head low.

“I feel like I abandoned you,” he admitted, and his voice wavered. “It’s just so unfair, because it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve this from me. You probably wondered where I’d been, and I was just… I wanted to come, every night I wanted to. I know how much you… I know that you need it to be… urgh, I just fucked up, Draco. I can’t excuse my behavior. I wanted so bad to be someone you could count on – I still do. But I was so out of it, I was scared I’d hurt you by accident. Then I just ended up hurting you anyway.”

 _No,_ the voice reminded him before he could start off again. _Bad Draco. No._ But this was just so very unbelievable! Draco breathed in and out a few times in quick succession. The chaos in his head broke into proper mayhem. It seized every last bit of him and _squeezed_.

“I know it’s a shit apology, Draco. I wouldn’t take it either if I were you. I just couldn’t handle it any other way. All of Wednesday – hell, up until tonight, I was in shambles. And I wanted to see you, needed to see you, I just didn’t know if… didn’t know how to… I was so angry.”

“Potter…”

“I just couldn’t stand it,” Potter pleaded. “Thinking about what they’d done to you. Thinking of how you – the look on your face when you told me… it’s sick, Draco. What they did is so sick and so wrong, and it’s just… I can’t even tell you how mad I was. I wanted to break everything in that place. I actually set my shower curtain on fire by accident.” He tried for a broken smile, and Draco’s gut twisted painfully.

A siren went off; something deep inside him that vibrated and shook, and it was the very last warning before shattering. Potter was… Potter was completely torn apart here, and it was because of him. It felt wrong and incredible and entirely unbelievable. That Draco could cause – this reaction – the green eyes, such a fine weapon, were gigantic and they drove holes in Draco’s flesh and pierced his heart. Draco was powerless against them. What a fucking way to find himself under siege.

 _No. Focus._ “I don’t – Potter, it’s done with. You don’t need to get so worked up about it.” Because I do, enough for the both of us. _Because it’s your due, Draco._

“How can you say that? How can you say that it’s over? I see how it’s affecting you every day. I see what it’s still doing to you. Do you think I don’t? How your eyes are always red and your – Draco, it’s _killing_ you. And I can’t watch that anymore. It hurts too much.”

“You don’t need to,” Draco spat, and it was so much easier to say. “You don’t need to watch me do anything. You can leave. No one asked you to stay.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Potter’s voice was at least steady now. “Please say you are. Please say that’s not what you think of me. I know I hurt you, but I’m not going anywhere, Draco. Fuck, I – these past few days were hell on earth. I thought I was dying, I was raging so bad. And all I wanted was to see you and – make sure you were all right – “ he shook his head, and Draco was frightened for all the wrong reasons. Not because he thought Potter might hurt him, but because he – well – because he thought he might not? What sick, twisted psychological warfare was this?

“I am all right,” he lied through his teeth, and Potter didn’t even dignify that with a response. “Potter, I’m fine. It’s not been – easy – but it’s all right. I’m getting past it, I think. It’s getting better.”

“You used to be so much better at lying,” Potter hissed, and if that wasn’t true… “Draco, I – look, I know it’s not my place. I’m not going to tell you what to do. I can only say that if that’s what it did to _me_ , I can’t even imagine what it did to you. It was… I don’t know if I can explain it. I felt like something was burning inside me, actually burning, and it hurt. I was shaking so bad. I…” he was shaking now, too. Draco could only gape in shock. “I wanted to hurt him. Them. All of them. As bad as they hurt you.”

 _You don’t deserve this_ , the cold voice yelled, and Draco agreed. _Potter can’t be so angry for your sake. You have to fix this._

“It doesn’t matter, Potter. The most important thing is that it’s behind me, all right? I was fine, honestly. I hardly ever thought about it. I’m sure I can get that way again.”

“So you’re saying it’s me who’s doing this to you?” Potter gestured vaguely around. His eyes caught the sick on the carpet and the desperate blob that was Draco.

He thought he might hurl again. “Of course not. You’re being ridiculous.” _Bad, bad Draco._ “You were the one making it better, not worse.” It could have been a lie, but it could have been the truth, too. It depended on which part of him you were asking.

Potter took it the wrong way somehow, and he looked pained. “Draco, I’m sorry. I should have talked to you – I should never have just taken off like that. I should have told you that I’m not angry with you or anything. I… please, I’m so sorry.”

Draco didn’t know what to do with it, with the desolation screaming from his expression. He didn’t know what to even think of that. _Nothing, you imbecile, you think nothing of it. You don’t care for Potter. You can’t. He’s the enemy._

“Draco, say something, please.”

Potter was so sad and it was because of him. _Because of the pile of shit you are_. Draco could not stand it; it physically hurt somewhere in the empty expanse that used to be his chest. _This is war. People get hurt. There are always casualties._

But did it have to be Potter who got hurt? Couldn’t it be someone else? Hell, can’t it be him? _You will be hurt even worse if you don’t do this._ He was so tired.

“Look, I’ll do whatever you want me to, all right? if you want me to leave, I will. If you want to yell at me, go ahead. I just… I want to make this right, Draco.”

_Only He can make it right. Remember Him, Draco? Remember your decision? Your fucking resolve?_

“I can’t.”

“Draco…”

 _You are His. You cannot feel any of these **fucking insane feelings** fluttering in your chest right now. Go down on your fucking knees and beg forgiveness. Potter needs to leave._ He was so, so tired.

“Potter – “

“Draco – “

 _No. His and His alone. Not Potter’s._ he thought of the letter. Of the fairy-tale healing charm. Of the little lines in His eyes when He told him He loved him. How He saved him, how much he owed Him…

“No, Potter, I – “

“Please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

What he wants? What he _wants_? How the hell was he meant to know what he fucking wants? Draco wanted to run into Potter, to crash so hard into him that they’d merge into one being. He wanted to bolt in the opposite direction. He wanted Him, hard, weighing him down. He wanted to be so small he was invisible. He wanted nothing. He wanted it all. _You deserve nothing._

“I'm sorry.” There was nothing more he could say. His head was reeling and probably steam came out of his ears. The voice was screeching so hard he thought he’s going to go deaf.

 _You belong to Him. Always will be._ He just wanted to rest, somewhere warm, somewhere soft. Somewhere in a dream… _You know, Draco. You know very well. Forever and always, His Draco._

“I understand. I’ll – I guess I’ll go, then.” Potter got up and shuffled a little on his feet.

No. _Yes_. No. _Yes._ He wasn’t going mad, he was already mad. “Potter, wait – “

The green eyes were so sad.

_It doesn’t matter if Potter is sad, because Potter is not Him, and you only care about Him._

He was about to leave.

_Good. You are not to care for Potter. You are not Potter’s._

But he was in pain.

_You are not, you are not, you are not._

Potter walked away.

_You love Him._

he did, but what the hell did that have to do with right now?

_His and His alone._

He isn’t here. Potter is. Potter needs him.

_You will be punished._

He’s always being punished for one thing or another.

_This will be worse than even you can take._

But Potter was so sad.

_You’re nothing, Draco Malfoy._

Well, fuck you too.

_Always will be His._

Yes, _yes_ , but –

_You are not. You cannot._

Potter –

_Him._

But Potter –

_Him._

But –

_You’re a useless cock who doesn’t know his place._

Stop.

_You’re a filthy fucking whore, a masochist piece of garbage._

Please, stop.

_You are nothing, deserve nothing, good for nothing. You are evil._

Please. Please stop.

_No, no, no! You are a traitor, an abomination, a –_

Fuck it.

Draco was sick of it. He sprang to his feet, and if he could spare enough energy to jump, he would have done that too. He was sick, sick, sick of it. He was not going to listen to that arsehole anymore, even if said arsehole was his own bloody mind. Draco raised two mental fingers in a magnificent up yours and roared, _roared_ at it to shut the hell up. It didn’t matter what it said. It didn’t matter that he’d made up his mind and that he was so sure he will go through with it. It didn’t matter that he was beside himself with anguish. Potter was here and here, _here_ , was everything that mattered.

“Potter, wait. I don’t want you to go.”

“You don’t?” his face was actually painful to watch.

“No, I don’t. Sit down, won’t you? You’re making me nauseous.”

Potter didn’t comment on that weird remark, but rather sat back down on the sofa with such clear relief, Draco almost laughed. It was like the sun suddenly shone after a huge storm but better, a million times better. Something very hard and cold plummeted in his abdomen, and Draco suspected it was fear, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it at the moment.

Gods, he never stood a chance, did he? He should have known his defences will crumble against him. He could never withstand those green eyes, even if it would get him killed, which it most certainly will at this point. Who the fuck cared about that? He would have torn himself open with his own hands, clawed himself from head to toe if Potter asked him to. Potter was here. Potter cared about him.

Potter cared about him.

The decision he’d made before – all those terrible days of abusing himself to comply – they didn’t matter; the voice howling in his head could be ignored; Potter looked beyond grateful. His face was a shock of happiness and pain and barely-cooled anger and something else, something frightening that made Draco feel like puking and singing at the same time. How could he ever hope to face him? How? He was not a worthy opponent. Not even He would ask Draco to do the impossible.

And it was _over_ , because he _gave up_ , and _everything_ could _go to hell_ for all he cared. That was it, that was it, that was it. he can rip himself to shreds about it later. Merlin, He will probably rip him to shreds sooner than that. It just didn’t matter. Potter – Potter was – Potter could never love him, but he was here. He didn’t need to love him. Draco wasn’t a flower, he didn’t need love to survive. What he needed was for that _fucking voice_ to _shut up_ , and for now, miraculously, it did. Draco would have done a victory lap over the living room if he only had any force in his limbs.

He did it! The first round was over and the curtain was drawn. But this was not a play, this was war, and doubt ticked in his head now. War was bad and cruel. War could sneak up on him and take this new-found silence, this peace from him. The very sadness in Potter’s eyes was cause enough for alarm. But Draco fucking did it, he made up his mind and for once he can’t take it back. This was it. no good crying over spilt potion. He gave in to Potter and he will bear his crosses with it, he will do whatever the hell he needed to because _Potter Potter Potter_ was everything now.

“I swear, Draco, I really wanted to come before. I couldn’t stand thinking of you alone, waiting – I mean, thinking I’d be there, and how I was failing you. I was just… I thought it would be worse if I came and you saw how – how fucked up I was about it. I even scared myself.” He sniffled rather loudly, and Draco’s poor heart gave up in a wild ‘poof!’ and exploded.

“Potter… I hate to think you were so torn up about it. You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to take this on top of everything else.”

“I don’t think I can help it, Draco. Listen, I know I gave you my word, but I don’t know if I can keep it anymore. Thinking they’re still out there – it’s too much for me.”

“Potter, please,” Draco whimpered, because all of his strength and resolve were already used up in the futile war against Potter, against himself, and now he had none.

“Look, I'm sure there are ways to do it that won't lead back to you, and we don't - I mean, we don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just... please, I have to do _something_. I have to, or it will kill me.” He sounded serious. Damn it, he looked serious. Draco looked away hurriedly before it did anything irreversible to his squirming insides, but it may have been too late. He could feel it already, swarming in great clumps around his gut, bubbling and dangerous.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He could not be doing what he’s thinking of doing – but also he’d already done so much worse, hadn’t he? Had he not just betrayed the one person he was sworn to never betray by waving a white flag? Had he not just forfeited his life?

Still. There was being disobedient, there was being dumb, there was being suicidal, and then there was total fucking lunacy. Draco had _just_ won a battle over the voice in his head, or maybe just lost, and then he goes and does this stupid thing? He’s not crazy, he’s… worse. Whatever the hell that was.

But Potter was so sad. Potter was restless, and Potter needed a release. Potter, who was all that mattered. Potter was suffering because of him, because of Draco, and he didn’t have all the facts. Perhaps if he did, it would help him. Perhaps if he knew he wouldn’t be so miserable anymore. And Draco was a dead man already, worse than dead, so it hardly made sense to halt on his account.

In that case… hell, there was no reason not to do it, was there? Draco cleared his throat and zoomed back to reality. The inside of his head was still a dangerous place, shimmering and deceptive. Never mind. He will live on the surface and Potter will have this, have this part of him, because Potter bloody deserved it and Draco simply could not fight it any longer.

He did the impossible and reached his hand forward. It hovered above Potter’s knee, an inch above the denim, and for a second they both just stared at it, transfixed. Then it landed with a soft thud and suddenly Draco was aware of the sweetest pain he could never imagine. He didn’t think he’s brave enough to close his eyes, so he just looked away at the wall and drew a deep breath. For better or worse, he was a little bit Potter’s now, and it was freeing just as it was terrifying.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he was relieved to hear his voice was stable. Of all the silly acts of rebellion, this was probably the worst. He had to do it though. “It’s about… that man I told you about.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“No – not Him. The guard. The one who – who had me apologize. The one that was worse than the Dark Lord.”

“The one who raped you cruelly enough to make Voldemort look like a kitten? Yeah, I remember.” Potter looked at Draco’s hand on his knee and took a measured breath. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I –“

“Please, just listen. This isn’t so easy. I’ve only ever told one person, and only because he was there to see it happen.”

“All right.” There was silence that Potter must have hoped was inviting, but was actually almost debilitating. Draco had to focus very, very, very hard here. He exhaled a big sigh.

“This guard, G- Alan. He was – hard on me. Very hard. He was the main one who… oh gods.” Draco could not do this, he just couldn’t. He took another improbably long breath. “I told you they all wanted to break me, but he was the worst. He needed to hurt me more than anything. Fucking me wasn’t enough. Making me cry wasn’t enough. He needed to know I was so miserable, there was no chance of ever getting better. He needed to break me beyond repair.” Draco looked down at his hand, precariously sitting atop Potter’s knee, and could not believe he was doing this. “The night before my release he came into my cell. He made me kneel and… in any case, after he was done, he went very serious. He grabbed my face and forced it up so I won’t be able to look away and he threatened me. He said – he said he will get me back. That he will get me back in that cell for the rest of my life so he could always keep his eye on me. So he could always – play with me – “

That was about as much as he could take; his voice snapped. Draco took his hand off Potter’s knee, for the skin of it was buzzing relentlessly, and tucked it protectively in his lap. He had to continue now or he’ll never be able to. “Going out was such a shock, I’d never even thought about it for a while. There was so much to – to process, to try and get over, and I had real trouble getting any sense of… I was lost, Potter. I didn’t know what to do, how to get past it. Then, for a while, it was better. There was someone who wanted to help me. I started thinking that maybe – never mind, it doesn’t matter. I told you I worked at the Golden Horntail. It was my last shift – the last day of my parole, I was going to quit. Then I saw him there.”

“Alan?”

“Yes. Sitting in a booth, grinning like a maniac. I didn’t know what to do, Potter. I just froze. I dropped this huge tray, and all the glasses – anyway, he came up to me and started talking. I could hardly even hear what he said. Something about how he’d found me, how he was going to… take me back…” Draco swept a very shaky hand over his eyes. He wished he could not remember what his face looked like. Just to cut it out of his heart.

It took a while before he remembered to continue. The silence was so heavy, he suspected Potter had stopped breathing. “He led me out of the pub and onto the alleyway. I was unable to move, unable to… I couldn’t even run. I was so scared. My mind was racing but my legs were jelly and I couldn’t move. Then he side-alonged me to his place and I just lost it.”

There was a sharp gasp, and the knee Draco had previously touched jumped. “God.”

“I didn’t know what to do, I tried everything at once. Running, shooting curses, hitting him – but there was nowhere to run to, and I could barely hold my fists up, let alone my wand. He laughed. He said he was – going to – fuck me so hard, I’d leave a… Malfoy-shaped hole in the floor.” The terror, so many years old now, felt as fresh as it had back then. Draco was almost lost to it, to that moment, the gleam in the blue of his eyes, the hand sent to his face, stroking it lazily, commandingly. How he nearly… he was almost begging now: “I panicked. He was going to do it, too, I know it. He’s done it enough times. For two years he’d systematically, deliberately, tore piece after piece out of me until nothing was left. And he was going to do it again. He pressed his cock to me and I just…” he let out a series of quick and shallow pants which resulted in him being even more frenetic than before. “I cast the first spell I could think of. The first one that came to mind. It was… it was a Sectusemptra.”

Draco saw more movement from the corner of his eye. “You-?”

“I didn’t know what I was doing. I was scared out of my mind, I was so confused and – I’d killed him. I didn’t mean to. I tried to stop it, to counter-curse it, but I just didn’t know how. I ran.”

“Ran?”

“Yes, I ran! I just killed a man who was trying to take me back to Azkaban, thereby ensuring I will most definitely go back for life! I couldn’t bloody stay there, could I? I ran. That’s why I had to disappear. That’s why I can’t ever… it was all over for me then.” He huffed and lowered his glance to the carpet. “Look, I know that you’re an Auror, I’m not a fool – I know you’ll need to… do something about it. If you want to arrest me, whatever, do what you must. I just thought you should know, because – because he’s dead. The man who hurt me most… he’s dead. He can’t do anything anymore.”

“But Draco, it was in self defence! You won’t go to prison for – “

“Are you really this naïve, or are you putting an act for my benefit?” Draco looked up, nostrils flaring, eyes burning. “I’m a _criminal_ , Potter. An ex-con straight out of parole – they would have chucked me in with no trial! The fucking Ministry and the way they’d been handling the whole thing – no one would have even listened to me! There was no other choice. There was nothing else to do. I had to disappear.” He was out of breath now, panting and holding his chest like it hurt. It kind of did.

Potter was quiet for a moment. “This guard, what was his surname? Alan what?”

“Please don't make me do that.”

"Do what?”

“Tell you. I... there's no need to go ahead and pull this case up, Potter. It’s been four years. It’s in the cold files now, and you sticking your nose in it will do me no favors. I’d be top suspect if this thing pops opens again. If you want to take me in, just fucking tell me first so I can kill myself. If not – then you leave this alone.”

Potter didn’t sound very convinced. “Draco, listen to me. Things are not like they were back when you were sentenced. No one is going to chuck you in without a trial, and I won’t fucking let them even if they tried. To be honest, they’re probably not even looking for you. I looked up your name maybe a couple of weeks ago in our records and there was nothing against it besides your Death Eater charges.”

“You looked up my name?” Draco’s voice was barely a whisper, but Potter cowed like he yelled at him.

“For my use only. I’ve not let anyone else see – no one knew I was looking. And even if they did they wouldn’t know why.”

“I asked you not to,” Draco reasoned, and again Potter looked stricken. “You promised me that you won’t.”

“No, I promised I won’t tell – and I didn’t! No one knows you’re alive. But don’t you get it, Draco? You don’t have to hide anymore!” he let out a tense laugh. “If this was it – if this was the thing that kept you from coming back – it doesn’t need to anymore! You can come back, and that arse will be charged post mortem, you will be exonerated – and that will be it! you could put it behind you!”

“You are delusional,” Draco said, but it was more to himself than to Potter. What a surprise; idiot Draco made another idiotic mistake. He hitched his wagon to the wrong, and mentally demented, horse.

“No, Draco, honestly – I’m an Auror, right? I know a little about these things. Please, if you can just trust me – “

“There is something you’re just failing to understand here,” Draco spat and looked at him with all the contempt in the world. “There’s only one principle I live by, all right? One and only one. I’d given my heart – I’d given my soul – I gave everything I fucking had, but one thing I kept. _I am not going back to Azkaban_. I don’t care that Gr- that he won’t be there anymore. Rutgrass will, and the others will, and I’m not going back for anything. If you want to keep digging into this, be my guest. You can let my corpse know how well you’ve done.”

Potter was seconds away from tearing his shirt with the way he was tugging on the hem. “Draco, come on – “

“Draco nothing. I am not going to let this go anywhere. Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have told you – I knew you’re going to be the fucking _Savior_ about it. Can you please just…” Draco rubbed his eyes. “I wanted you to know because I thought it’d make you feel better. I thought you could maybe be less angry. I know it helped me when… knowing he was dead.”

Potter stayed silent for a long minute. “You told me this because I was upset?”

“Yes,” Draco said to his hands. “I wanted to help you.”

“And you thought I might throw you in prison because of it?”

“Well, I know how you Aurors get,” he snarled with very little venom.

“And still you told me. Because I was upset.”

Potter’s habit of repetition was straining Draco’s already very frayed nerves. “Yes, all right? I told you because you were angry and hurt and I thought you might feel less bad if you knew. I wanted to – fuck, Potter, you’d already saved my life so many times. I had to give you this back. I had to give you _something_.”

“When did I save your life?” Potter’s voice was deceptively soft; Draco was sure no one could talk like that and actually mean it. Still, it was Potter, the one to whom he just pledged his allegiance, so he owed him at least honesty.

“When didn’t you? All the bloody time. Every night you came by, every time you said my name. I was… Fuck it, Potter, you’ve been saving me non-stop since the day you came into the shop. Did you honestly not know? That night when you… on the floor with me… can’t you see for yourself? You’re – “ Draco stopped, winded, and hung his head low. Potter didn’t want this rambling confession, this weak and pathetic excuse of a human he was. Potter was far too good to ever want anything to do with him. If anything he probably feels embarrassed right now, and he wants to go. “It doesn’t matter. If you want to arrest me fucking go for it. I have the poison right here. If not, you’re free to leave.”

“Christ, Draco, you’re so… of course I’m not going to arrest you.” Potter fixed the glasses on the bridge of his nose and pouted. Draco’s heart skipped three consecutive beats. “You were acting in self defence. No court in a million years will sentence you to prison, but… look, if you want to keep this between us, fine. I don’t see how it makes that much of a difference anyway. He was a piece of shit and I’m glad he’s dead.”

“You are?” Draco asked, uncertain to the point of physical pain. “I… you’re the bloody Golden Boy, Potter. You don’t condone murder.”

“Have I not murdered Voldemort?” Potter asked, again in that soft tone of voice that had Draco this close to breaking apart. “I’m not free from sin, Draco. No one is. That man was going to hurt you – he was going to rape you – and you defended yourself. After years of abuse. Of course I’m glad you stood up for yourself.”

Draco’s lip quivered. He wanted so much to touch him again, but he was so, so scared. “So you won’t – take me to – “ his croak was low and frightening, but Potter laughed.

“You’re such a twit, Draco. Of course not.”

Draco deflated a little. “You don’t need to save me again, Potter. I told you, you already have, more than enough times. It’s okay if you want to step away from it now.”

“Step away? You’re out of your mind. I was killing myself the last few days away from you. I don’t think I could… hell, Draco, you may think I saved you, but the opposite is more like it. My life was so… and you’ve made it so…” his eyes glimmered. “I never want to hurt you. You’re… you mean so much to me.”

How, how was he meant to resist him? Potter was everything good in this world, he was the very concept of good taken from its abstract state and poured into a solid form. Draco would do anything, anything for him, he would give him it all, everything he had.

“Draco…” Potter sounded uneasy. “You said you’d told someone else. Someone who’d been there.”

Oh, right. he would give him it all – _but for this_. He can’t give Potter Him, not ever. “Yes. There was someone there that night. When I cast the spell. He saw the whole thing happen.”

“Can you…”

“No.” Draco looked away before he crumbled into tears. Disobedience was hard enough without Potter’s stung green obscenities. Damn him, the battle was over, there was no need to use bloody torture. “I’m sorry, but no, I can’t tell you who that was.”

“All right. I’m not going to do anything with this information, so if you do want to tell me some time, feel free to. But if you don’t – that’s all right, too. I can wait. I know if it was someone dangerous, someone I should know about, you’d tell me.”

Draco pondered this question. No doubt He was dangerous, and the company He keeps alone would be reason to alert Potter. But it wasn’t like He was _dangerous_ , dangerous. Only on the wrong side of town sort of thing. Bad company. He wasn’t a risk. He shook his head and thought hard how to say what he desperately needed to.

“Potter… thank you. Thanks for listening, and for not forcing me to say more. I know you must have some more questions, and I appreciate you giving me time. Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell you everything.”

“No pressure, Draco. Really, whenever you’re ready. I’m here for whatever you need.”

Gods, this was a nightmare. Potter was too much, too fucking much, too good and too kind and too considerate and such a complete, complete pillock that Draco couldn’t possibly bear. Quickly, before he loses heart, Draco grabbed his hand in his and held it. Potter said nothing, didn’t even move an inch, and so they stayed for a moment that was probably eternal, and Draco wasn’t even so scared anymore.

Draco closed his eyes a little warily after Potter left. He won the battle, yes, but the war was far from over. There was still so, so much to handle. Still… telling Potter about Grove’s death was like releasing a fifty pound weight. Unbelievably enough, that night he actually slept.

***

It seemed to be a recurring theme, for the next Sunday was even more unbelievable than the previous ones. Having said so much the night before Draco hardly even expected Potter to be back, but back he was, and armed with food and cleaning materials and that life-wrecking smile of his that Draco simply could not tolerate. It was the best and most terrible thing he could hope for.

Draco’s only yearning now was to touch him, but it was a constant battle between fear and need. There were some things he could do with relative ease – relative being, it was easier than sawing his own arm off – like taking Potter’s hand. But what he needed, what he truly needed, Draco didn’t think he’d ever be able to ask for. It was so much easier with Him; He would take, and Draco would give. There was no thinking and obsessing and worrying about it, just acceptance. Now… Draco hadn’t been touched in so long, which could have been a good thing, but he was getting desperate. Could it be possible that he never wanted to be touched again, but also longed to be held? He didn’t know if it made sense. He only knew that he did.

All day was a game of cat and mouse between Draco and himself. A part of him – a considerable part – was begging for him to return to sanity, wait for Him on his knees and never speak to Potter again. Another part – the one nearer to _right here_ – said fuck it, He was away, and Draco would drown if it wasn’t for Potter. A third part, one that was his constant companion since the first day outside, simply suggested he took the poison and got it all done with. All in all, he was bamboozled. Potter saw the turmoil in him, but said nothing.

Only before he left he addressed the subject. “Draco –“ for the bastard didn’t fail to call him that now, and every single time it made him feel lighter than air and too fucking solid at the same time – “Are you feeling awkward because of yesterday? You seem a little off. I realize I may have said some things that, er, might be a little much for – well, I only mean to say, we haven’t been back in each other’s lives for so long, and I didn’t mean to… erm… scare you off. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. Please tell me I haven’t freaked you out.”

Draco rolled his eyes and prayed for patience. “Could you please, just for one second, stop being such a complete prat? I can’t take it anymore. Honestly, you’ve gone too far. You can’t be so bloody _good_ and _thoughtful_ all the time. I’m sick of it.”

Potter laughed, and the tightness in his shoulders relaxed. “Okay, good. I just thought… never mind, I’m glad to know I didn’t scare you off. I still haven’t cooked you that dinner I promised, and I hate to break my word.”

That hurt somewhere deep down in the first part of Draco’s soul ( _always His, always His…)_ but he tried not to let it show. “All right. You may cook me dinner.”

“Brilliant. Friday night? I can get off work earlier so I’ll have the time to make a proper meal. Any requests?”

“Whatever you want. Just, er, as long as it doesn’t have beans, I think It’d be all right.”

“Beans? What’s wrong with beans? Are you allergic or something?”

“No, no, I just don’t eat them.”

“But – I thought I saw some in the cupboard?”

“Did you?” Draco rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Must be from when He was still living here. I don’t eat them, not ever. Well, not anymore.”

“Why’s that?” Potter leaned against the door and looked at him with those damn eyes. Draco shivered and hurried to look away.

“It’s a… thing… from Azkaban… weren’t you leaving?”

“Erm, yeah, but I can stay. You can tell me if you want to.”

“No, please, go and do whatever it was you wanted to do. I will tell you some other time, promise.” They had Pizza for dinner, and Draco did not want to see little pepperoni pieces dotting the carpet when he will most certainly sick up if he continues thinking about it. He pushed the uncomfortable thought away.

“Are you sure? Because I can stay. Honestly.”

“Goodness grief, Potter, didn’t we settle on one fucking second of peace?” Draco wanted to kiss him. he wanted to kiss him so, so bad that his fingers were itching to grab and his lips were tingling.

“All right, then,” Potter laughed. He bit his lower lip and Draco could have screamed with how much he wanted, right now, all of it. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. If there’s anything keeping me I’ll send you an owl, okay? I won’t disappear again. I promise.”

“Just go,” Draco huffed, because one more second and he will not be able to contain it anymore.

“Yes. Going. Gone.” Now Potter stood on the other side of the door, and Draco was close to exploding. In a rapid motion that was more dumb luck than brains he sent his hand forward, landing on Potter’s jacket, above his heart.

“Thank you,” he breathed, and maybe Potter didn’t even hear it because his eyes went all round and misty and his smile was very hesitant. “I – thank you, Potter. Really.”

It must have been an immense effort for Potter not to move – he was practically shaking with it. “No, Draco, you have nothing to thank me for. I should be thanking you. Thanks for letting me – thank you.”

Draco closed his eyes, because bloody hell, even his sick imagination was better than that look on his face. “Please just go already.”

Potter chuckled wanly. “See you tomorrow night. Take care.”

Draco just shut the door in his face before he could say anything more and make it somehow, thought it did seem impossible, worse.


	13. How to Win Friends and Influence People

The war was not over, but it was on some shaky sort of hiatus. It was highly unbelievable, and if asked about it Draco would be reluctant to admit, but it began to look like he might just be able get the upper hand on that voice for the time being. At least most of the time. Well, he wouldn’t want to admit there _were_ voices to begin with, because voices equaled crazy, and Draco didn’t think he was crazy. Not now, anyway. Not in the normal sense of the word. In the less conventional, loose sense of ‘doing things that will most certainly ensure utter and terrible doom’ then yes, sure, he was crazy. But Draco didn’t really care about that at the moment. He had very little space in himself to care for much. Hell, he’d been dead for years now and he didn’t even know it. But it must have been the case because now with Potter he realized he is finally, finally, alive.

It was a weird understanding, and it still took a lot of getting used to. Potter arrived every single night and rocked Draco’s world from top to bottom in a way that was simply deplorable. Draco did not think he’d be able to forgive him for it any time soon. When he was there, Draco’s face hurt with how much he was smiling. When he was away, Draco hurt himself trying to make up for it. It was a vicious circle. It was a nightmare. It was the best week of his life. He had a hard, hard time having such a nice time all of a sudden. He thought he might and probably will die with it, no outside intervention necessary.

On Sunday Potter suggested they went for a walk, and he obviously knew a park nearby, because he fucking knew everything. Draco didn’t think it’s a very good idea – generally being outside, in the open, was a startling concept – but it wasn’t like he could really say no to Potter’s child-like, bubbling enthusiasm. Rolling his eyes and moaning constantly he wrapped up and out they went.

He should have known it was a mistake, but Draco was too caught up in – all of this. In the way Potter’s _fucking eyes_ sparkled when he looked at him. In that horrible, terrible, awful smile of his that was far too bright for a sloppy person such as he. Draco hated it. Loathed it. Despised it. And also…

It couldn’t have been love, for that’s not how love feels, and Draco knew that. He knew that because he did love, he loved Him, and so he knew what to expect. There was none of that mad, explosive way in which his heart beat whenever He was near. There wasn’t that painful longing whenever they were apart to always, always be near, to offer himself in that unrelenting way. There wasn’t this desperate, hopeless need to satisfy, to appease, to please. In all honesty, compared to Him, Draco’s relationship with Potter was dull.

Only it wasn’t a relationship, he had to remind himself again and again. It wasn’t and it will not be, couldn’t be one. There were thousands of reasons for why that was simply impossible. Draco, for one. He was still irreparably attached to Him, even if it was kept a secret, and becoming increasingly confusing. Also, if a world existed in which Draco could imagine He wasn’t in, even then Draco could never be with Potter. He wasn’t whole enough. Scrap that – he just wasn’t enough. Potter was _the_ man, everyone’s _the_ , and so it was doomed to begin with. Oddly, it made Draco feel that much better. Because he knew without a doubt there could never ever be something between him and Potter, he felt much freer to act… the way he did with him. To talk to him. To smile at him, heaven forbid. To tease and ridicule him. Fuck, he probably felt freer with Potter than he ever did with anyone in his life. It was bewildering.

Just to rub salt in the wound, it was a brilliant day outside. The weather (fucking weather, Draco hated the weather) took a turn for the better and the end of February was actually pleasant. That Sunday was sunny and gleaming and marvelous and offensive. Draco wanted to roll it into a ball and carefully tuck it in his pocket for future use. Days like these weren’t rare, they simply did not exist. Until now. And soon, probably too soon, it will all be taken away from him again. So he grimaced and grit his teeth and bloody _enjoyed_ it. Mostly, but not solely, because he wanted to prove once and for all to the voice that fuck it. Spiteful would never not be a part of Draco Malfoy.

They sat down on a bench and looked around. The way Potter eyed everything with a true sense of wonder was disgusting, and Draco was drawn to it like moth to a flame. He knew, stupid moth that he was, the he will get burned. He knew that. It couldn’t have stopped him.

“God, it’s so great to be outside. I feel like I’ve been cooped up in the office for weeks now.”

Draco rolled his eyes (he was beginning to fear they will get stuck there with how often he had to do it). “Weren’t you just out running around chasing that smuggler on Friday? I think you still smell of it.”

“Oh no, this is just my natural odour,” Potter flickered his eyebrows slyly. Draco sighed. If only he could fold that too, Potter’s scent, his bloody eyebrows, and keep it in his shirt pocket, right next to his heart. Oh, Merlin’s pants, what a sickening thought. He’s really losing it now.

“Do shut up. I seem to remember a time you’d make sure not to arm me with any more weapons to use against you. Getting a little careless, four-eyes?”

Potter laughed, the bastard. “That the best you can do? Pathetic.”

“Is that an invitation, Potter? Because I’m fairly sure I can reduce you to tears in a matter of seconds.”

“You know what, you probably can.” Potter’s smile was still plastered all over his face, but it looked strained. “Please don’t, though. I’d hate if it ruins my mascara.”

“You’re not wearing – urgh, Potter, stop being an arse.” Draco hated, hated, hated how he felt around him. Every time the sodding prat opened his perfect, luscious mouth. Every time he _looked_ at him, which was somehow still a thing Draco was starved for, no matter how much he was seen every day.

“So this isn’t so bad, huh? I was beginning to think maybe you’d been bitten by a vampire or something. Or maybe became a – what are they called? Is it Anthophobia when you’re scared of going out?” 

“I think you made that one up. You mean Agoraphobia, you dimwit.” Honestly, Draco was impressed that Potter could string a sentence with any sort of phobia in it.

“Right, yeah, that one. I was beginning to think you’d maybe developed that.”

Draco didn’t know how to explain he’d probably feel comfortable under any ‘phobia’ group under the sun. “I just don’t like… being exposed. That’s all. You know how I’m meant to be dead to all the people who know me.” And then, meant to be _loyal_ to the one who really did, and he wasn’t exactly doing that either. Basically, he was screwed on all fronts.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, I didn’t mean to rub it in your face or anything, just that… you know you can’t stay inside forever. It’s not healthy for you.”

“I go to work every day,” Draco scoffed. “I get plenty of the outside then.”

“Come on, work doesn’t count and you know it.” Potter stretched luxuriously on the bench, still keeping a good distance between them, the considerate prat. “You need to spend time outside-outside, too. I know it’s scary, trust me, I get it. But no one can do anything to you, all right? You’re safe. Besides, I’m here.”

He said it so calmly, and Draco would have smothered him if there was any way to do it without having to touch him. He also dearly, despondently, wanted to kiss him. Both options were rejected at the door and kicked in their cheeky behinds. Instead he went on the attack. “You are a piece of work, Potter, let me tell you that. Is there ever a time in your life you don’t have to be a bloody Gryffindor Hero, or is it a full time job?”

Potter’s smile diminished, and damn him to hell, it _hurt_. “No, I’m not trying to be a – never mind. I just thought… whatever.”

Draco sighed. This wasn't what he wanted, either. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s nice that you care. I just… I guess it must be exhausting, having to be on it all the time. Watchful, tense. I want you to enjoy it too, not just to be on bloody guard duty constantly. This isn’t work, and you’re not my Auror detail.”

“I’m not on duty here. I do enjoy it. Probably too much, to tell you the truth.” Potter flashed his white teeth, and Draco’s insides did a funny little number in his belly. “Ron and Hermione keep asking me what’s going on. I think they think I…” he blushed, damn him, _damn him_.

“That you what? Are incapable of finishing your sentences?” being snarky was the only way he could not fucking gush all over him.

“Ha, they know that for ages now. No, they must think I’m dating someone. I’ve seen the smiles they think they’re able to hide between them.” The blush deepened and Draco hated him with fervor.

“So you’re not… dating anyone?” Now Draco hated himself even more, so order was somewhat restored.

“Nope. I’ve not been on a date in… god, it’s embarrassing to say how long. And the last time I’ve had a proper relationship was – wow, probably with Ginny. And that ended, what, three years ago? Shit, no, is it four? Fuck. This isn’t good.”

“So you’ve not… since then?” Stupid Draco, asking things he so terribly shouldn’t, was just so on mark it almost didn’t bother him.

“No, not really. I’ve been on dates here and there, and there were maybe a couple of times when – but nothing ever came out of it. I didn’t, erm, feel like it was worth it.”

“Worth what?” Draco asked, confused.

“You know, all of it. Cameras constantly taking pictures of every single move we make. Speculations and articles about the poor sod who’s insane enough to actually go through with that. And – well, Ginny seeing it all, it just felt so unfair. There was never anyone who I thought was worth going all that trouble for.”

Draco had to break apart several elements of that speech. “The camera thing I suppose I get, although I guess I thought you’d be used to that by now. What the other guy will go through – that’s not really your concern, though, is it? It’s not like they come into the date not knowing who you are. They must be willing to take the risk. But the last part – what do you mean, it’s unfair to Weasley?”

Potter sighed sadly. “I just don’t want to hurt her.”

“What?” Draco’s eyebrow jumped to his hairline. “Why would you dating someone hurt her?”

“Because she used to love me and we broke up and I was a bit of a dick about it?”

“Potter, that’s ridiculous. You’ve been broken up for _years_. You can’t not date anyone because you’re afraid she would get hurt. That’s just absurd.” Perhaps not any more absurd than him giving Harry Bloody Potter dating advice but hey, this was a wild world.

“No, I know that. It’s not like that at all. Just… you don’t understand, all right? We had this big fight, huge. Lots of shit broke. Lots of tears shed. And she… I wanted to apologize, to tell her I didn’t mean it like that, but she started avoiding me. Like if she knew I was coming to the Burrow, she’d go stay somewhere else. It was severe. After a while I realized that I’m basically preventing her from living her life. And when I hurt her so bad, it just seemed so unfair, so I kind of stopped going. Last time we saw each other face to face was probably two years ago. So I never really had the chance to fix it with her.”

“Stopped going? Where?” Draco asked gently. Potter shrugged.

“You know, social events. Dates in public places. It was all complicated enough before, but thinking that Ginny will have to see the pictures splashed all over the Daily Prophet – so I kept it as low key as I could. Hell, the last year I was probably only on like two dates. They were both the most stressful evenings of my life. And that's taking into account the time I faced a ten-feet tall Acromantula way deep in the Forbidden Forest.”

Draco didn’t laugh. “So you stopped living _your_ life so she wouldn’t stop living hers?”

“No, nothing like that. You know, it’s not like I was that out and about before, a regular Casanova. I don’t know if you remember, but I was never really the party sort of bloke.”

Draco choked on nothing. “No? really? Weren’t you famous for throwing all those parties I never heard of all the time?”

Potter chuckled, and his expression cleared a little. “Well, other than all of those, naturally.”

Draco allowed himself a weak smile. “You know you can’t stop living your life to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, Potter. You’re entitled to have some fun, for crying out loud. You’ve sacrificed enough of yourself for this world already.”

“It’s not that,” Potter cringed, but he didn’t have any more ammo to argue with. Draco sighed.

“It’s always that. And hey, maybe if you went back into the world, Weasley would see your point a little. It’s not like you broke it off with her so you can be a hermit. Maybe if she saw you out there, dating another man, it would help… you know. She wouldn’t be feeling so abandoned, like it was for nothing. She’d understand.”

“That’s a lot to ask,” Potter mused quietly, and Draco’s heart burned for him.

“She was a real friend, wasn't she? Maybe it's not so much to ask. Maybe you should give her a chance.”

“Maybe,” Potter conceded, looking beat. “I don’t know. I’ll… we’ll see, okay? It’s not like I’m in a mad rush to date. There’s work to think about, and Ron and Hermione with their wedding, and there’s – well, you.”

Draco tried for a coherent response, but all he managed was a startled “What?”

“Yeah, I mean, now that I’ve found you… I don’t want to give it up so quickly. I want to help you.”

“You want to – “ Draco thought he’d fall over with how fast he shot to his feet. “You’re unbelievable, Potter. Didn’t we just talk about your bloody hero complex? You don’t need to fucking help everyone all the time. Live a little, won’t you?”

Potter took it as the rebuke it was, very rightfully so in Draco’s opinion, and got up too. He can’t be saying things like that to him. He can’t say he doesn’t want to date, and then list Draco as one of the reasons why. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair and he will not stand for that. His pout, Draco hoped, made it clear enough.

“All right, all right, calm it. I didn’t mean it like that. Let’s walk a little, yeah? The sun’s out, but it gets chilly if you stay still long.” He gave Draco a hesitant smile and well, there was only so much he could do. He was only human, and not even that all the time. They walked.

Ah, to hell with it all, Potter's maddening attitude and carelessly thrown words; Draco could not get enough of this day. The grass was dead and the tress lifeless, the wind cold and the sun just dipped behind a cloud, but it all looked bloody bright with Potter by his side. His conflicting emotions never hurt mort, nor ever were so sweet. Then he saw a face he recognized and for a second, everything came crashing down.

It was two men walking ahead of them, holding hands. One of them was tall with short black hair, draped in a black trench coat, and the other was shorter and slightly more round in a thick jacket. The smaller man turned around to point at something, and his eyes interlocked with Draco’s. It took a moment for him to place them – cold blue was always so hard for him to bear – but then he released a sigh of deep relief; it was Daniel, the Muggle from the shop!

“Someone you know?” Potter asked in a low tone, and Draco nodded reassuringly as Daniel waved and halted. He gave Draco that bright smile he found so enchanting back when they met, when he was pretty much looped all the way around, and it took no time at all till they caught up with the two. For a second, Draco was too preoccupied with Daniel’s sparkling face to notice the other man.

“Hey – it’s – oh, sorry, I just realized I don’t know your name. Gabe, this is the man who sold me the violets!” Daniel flushed with embarrassment, and Draco chuckled softly.

“Sorry, yes. I’m Draco. Potter, this is Daniel, a customer. And this must be – “

Then the world stopped, actually stopped, and Draco heard an ear-splitting bang as every single thing in existence collided into the next. No, wait, that was all still inside his head, gods damn it. Draco stared, wide-eyed, gaping. He knew better than doing this, of course, but nothing could have really brought him to act normally because _he knew that man._

But where the hell from?

“Gabriel,” the familiar face said and contorted into a thin smile. “Lovely to make your acquaintance. Daniel has told me so much about how you helped him pick the perfect bouquet. For some reason, he doesn’t believe me when I say it made no difference whatsoever – I’ve had my eye on him ever since the day he came into my office.”

Daniel chuckled, Potter beamed, and Draco’s mind was a frozen tundra. He begged it to work, pleaded with all of his might, but nothing. Ice and snow and fucking polar bears roamed between his ears. Where, where does he know Gabriel from?

“Well, they _were_ rather brilliant, weren’t they?” Daniel asked.

“Oh yes, certainly. A very worthy choice.” Gabriel, or whoever the hell he was, smiled adoringly.

Fright buzzed in his abdomen. Draco could hardly even pay attention to what was going on around him. Gabriel and Potter talked about something silly or another, and all the while Draco tried very hard to think. Something bad, it was something… something important… then he gasped, audibly enough for everyone to turn to him immediately.

“Are you all right?” Potter asked, brows furrowing.

“Yes, perfectly fine,” Draco lied blatantly. He’s been getting a lot of practice in it lately. This man, this ‘Gabe’, was in His flat for a meeting. he was ninety nine percent sure of it. Back at the time Draco privately thought he looked a little like his uncle, Rodolphus Lestrange. They had the same cut to their dark hair, and an eerily similar glint in their eyes. Now Gabriel’s hair was short and he looked very different, but it was him, undoubtedly so. How could this be? “Say, Daniel, where did you say you two met?”

“At the office, we work together.”

“Right, yes, I do recall. And where did you say you worked?”

“Oh, I didn’t, I don’t think. We work in the Cabinet Office. I’m a junior data scientist, and Gabriel’s in security.”

Of course, that made sense… no, wait, did it? Draco’s mind was all over the place. Why would He bring a Muggle to His meetings? Suddenly and for the very first time, Draco wished he did hear a little of what went on in there. This was puzzling in the worst way possible.

“Sounds very interesting,” Potter grinned, and they continued their talk about gods know what. Draco was desperate to be alone so he could bloody think. But then, that was just a dangerous wish, since he hardly trusted his mind to do anything for him. He’s been on a very stern ‘hello-hello’ relationship with the contents of his brain since the collapse the other week, and he didn’t think he’s strong enough for much more. There was no telling when the other voice will beat him and his feeble control, and he lived in terror of that day. Of course, there was also the day He will be back, and then… well… then it will really be the end.

Draco didn’t know if he wanted to die so much at the moment. This past week was unbelievable in too many ways to count, and with Potter around, his life at least wasn’t just an empty, continuous streak of self-abuse. But when He comes and learns of Draco’s betrayal – when He hears how Draco _debased_ Him by his actions – nope, he wasn’t brave enough to try and imagine what would happen. Best not to, really. It took a moment until he realized everybody was looking at him.

“I’m sorry – did you say something?” he asked no one in particular.

Gabriel’s eyebrows knitted on his forehead. “I was merely curious to learn why you’d opened your shop. Why flowers, that is.”

Good, solid question, Draco thought to himself, especially coming from a fishy, no-good liar. Why was Daniel’s date in His meeting? In what world did that make sense? “Oh, well - I think it was mainly to do with their symbolism. Did you ever think about how rich the symbolic world of flowers is? Everyone knows roses stand for love – but did you know that Anemones represent feeling forsaken? And I wonder if you know what black Dahlias symbolize?” before anyone got the chance to ask, Draco tugged Potter’s sleeve. “We need to get going, I think. It’s getting cold and you weren’t clever enough to bring a scarf.”

“Oh, right. Well, it was nice to meet you,” Potter said a little heavily, and the two bade their farewells. Walking briskly away, Potter had to run a little to catch up to him. “Hold on, you prat – what’s gotten into you?” he was panting by the time they left the park, and very obviously worried when he noticed Draco’s expression. “Draco. Hey, Draco.” He stopped and sent his hand out, but didn’t grab for him, though Draco flinched as if he would. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“I – “ Draco wanted to lie again, but his head was frazzled and he didn’t know if he’s capable. “Potter, can we just go back? Please. I’ve had enough of the great outdoors for one day. I think I’m good for now.”

“Yeah, sure. Anything you want. Are you cold? Do you want to go for a hot drink somewhere? Or straight back to the flat, whatever you prefer.”

It took all of his effort not to visibly shiver, and so responding to this kindness was a little overwhelming. “Back, please.” He didn’t think he can stand this day to be much longer. Maybe at the flat he can tell Potter to fuck off and do some actual damage to himself. He felt like he needed a massive amount of pain before he could go back to thinking straight.

And thinking straight seemed imperative, now. It was almost ridiculous; he’s been with Him for four years, in London for three, and the amount he knew was close to nothing. How is this possible? He was in the building during their meetings. Damn it, he was in the bedroom. Had he really heard nothing to explain this? Can he make no sort of sense of it? And all the while, Daniel – a man for whom Draco felt an uncanny amount of emotion, for some psychotic reason or other that he was most certainly not going to go into at the moment – all the while Daniel was, if not in danger, then at least being fooled…

Arriving at the building shook him out of his thoughts, and he led the way upstairs with a sinking feeling. He didn’t know what the meaning of all of it was, but it wasn’t good. It was never anything good. He hurried to look at Potter before the voice in his head he could never quite vanquish starts lecturing on what he deserves.

“I’ll make us some tea?” Potter asked with a light grin and walked into the kitchen. Draco followed him like a lost puppy. Suddenly sending Potter away didn’t sound like such a good idea anymore; If he goes, Draco will be alone, and he was too scared for that right now. No, he was being silly. Of course he wanted Potter to stay. Potter was strong. Potter could –

Well, Potter sure could make a decent tea, Draco thought as he took the cup from his hands and they walked to the living room. That was something. Potter could make satisfactory tea. Draco didn’t feel cheeky enough to tell himself how much he hated him at the moment. He was frail now, and weak, and he _needed_.

In the living room the silence was even more unbearable, but Draco could think of nothing to say. His eyes canvassed the room absently, his mind racing for something, anything. There were still some darn bears walking it. Only then did he notice the orange note tucked under a potions book on the coffee table.

“Where did that come from?” he asked quietly. He sure did not place a ten-pound note on the coffee table. He didn’t _have_ a ten pound note to put in ridiculous places.

“What?” Potter shifted in his seat. “Oh, I don’t know. Is it not yours?”

“Of course not. You know it isn’t.” Draco squinted his eyes at the guilt-ridden face and gasped. “Did you – Potter, have you been _leaving money_ around here?”

Potter looked miserable. “Look, it’s not a big deal, all right?”

“I am – you absolute git – “ Draco just couldn’t believe it. “The fifty pound notes – you’ve been doing it for weeks!”

“Please, Draco, just listen.” Potter’s imploring eyes were saucer-sized.

“Well?” he didn’t seem like he was going to continue, though. Draco glared with all his might. “I’m not a charity case, Potter. I thought we’d agreed this whole thing wasn’t about you trying to _save_ me.”

“I’m not, it’s… it’s not that. I just couldn’t help but notice some things.”

The air in the room became unexpectedly thin. “Things?” Draco exhaled weakly.

“Some… things. I just – I have something to ask you, okay? And I need you to try not to get offended.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Draco quirked an eyebrow. Whatever pride he still had in him stung, but the concern in his gut was overpowering.

“Right. Well, just know I don’t mean it like that, all right? I’m only asking because – because I want to know for sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

Now he was _really_ concerned. There was so much to worry about. “Spit it out, Potter. What is it?”

“Do you… and again, I don't mean it in a bad way… but do you have enough money?”

“What?” Draco was taken aback. He thought Potter might have noticed the bruises he worked so hard on hiding, or the way he reacted to ‘Gabriel’ at the park, or something else, even worse. Monetary issues were the last thing on his mind.

“It’s… I just wanted to know that… you had enough for what you needed. Because – er – I don’t know how much one makes owning a flower shop in winter. It’s not that I don’t think you are capable or anything – you just kind of need a new coat because this one is pretty ragged and – and I wanted to make sure that you’re not only not buying one because you can’t afford to.” He was extremely flushed by the end of it, and Draco was simply stumped.

It took approximately five forevers before he was able to even think of an answer. “You noticed my coat? Very out of brand for you, Potter.”

“Come on, Draco, be serious for a moment.”

“No, no, I’m trying to, it’s just… level with me here, currently, are you wearing two different socks, or an actual pair for a change?” Draco’s tone was very flat. 

“It’s not – “

“So you’re incapable of distinguishing between blue and orange when it comes to picking up two identical socks for your outfit, but when it comes to me, you’re suddenly Mr. Fashion Forward?”

“It’s not a matter of fashion, Draco. Your coat has holes in it and it doesn’t look warm at all. I just think you should have something a little – cozier, that’s all. Something that would actually retain your body heat.”

Draco was absolutely speechless, which was rare for him. For a stunning, blissful moment, his head was completely silent, no ice or furry mammals, just nothing. “You’re such a prat.”

Potter sighed. “Okay, yes, I think we established that way back in… probably first year or thereabouts. But answer me honestly, Draco. You know I have more than enough money that I have absolutely nothing to do with. I would – I’d love to give you something. If you needed it. You can even pay me back if you wanted, I don’t – I’m sure you’d be able to. It’s just… I want you to be warm, Draco.”

To his boundless shame and utter shock, Draco felt a tear slip from his eye and run down his cheek. _Damn it_. This man was bloody unbelievable. He quickly turned his face away from him and took a hopefully steadying breath. To be warm… How could Potter be so fucking clueless and on point at the same time? How can he ruthlessly, constantly, mercilessly destroy all the walls Draco erected against him? warm was so much of what he wanted, of what he needed, of what he couldn’t have.

“I don’t need your money, Potter.” He couldn’t take anything from him, not a single thing more. Not money or supplies or a cup of tea or a bloody smile. Nothing. If he took even the slightest, most insignificant thing, his debt would crush him and he could never even hope to pay it back.

“Draco…”

“I don’t. Take it back. Put it in your pocket right away.”

“Draco, please. Please. It would make me so happy.”

“Potter, I’m not fucking joking. Take it away right now or get lost.” Draco gave him a very serious, pointy sort of look. “If I see it in the next ten seconds – “

“All right, here, I’m taking it. Honestly, Draco, though. Do you – and I really don’t mean to be nosy, but – do you have enough?” Potter grimaced uncomfortably. He didn’t look any more pleased than Draco felt.

“I’m afraid what I don’t have enough of is patience for this conversation. Shut it right now, I don’t want to hear about it. Dear gods, Potter, you’re incorrigible.”

“So I’ve been told, yeah.” Potter scratched his head uncomfortably. “Draco, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything by it. I just want to know that… that you’re looked after.”

Merlin, Mordred, Morgana, _everybody_ , save him from this big-hearted idiot. He could not for the life of him take it for another damned second. “Is the problem that you do not know the meaning of the phrase ‘shut it’, or that you are incapable of following simple directions?”

Potter laughed, the ineffable twat. “Yeah, sorry. Was never very good at following anything at all.” He leaned back on the sofa, and only then did Draco realize how tensely he sat beforehand. “Honestly, though, I was an arse. I’m sorry. I won’t sneak anything like that behind your back again.”

“Good to know,” Draco huffed. His temper was quickly receding into something much more dangerous.

“Mr. Fashion Forward, though? Seriously?” Potter smirked, and the look he gave Draco was just a hit below the belt.

“Well, sorry if I was a little surprised with your sudden interest in clothing when you can walk around wearing _that_ so calmly.” Draco gestured towards the pumpkin-jumper Potter had on. “I’m sure even Weasley would refuse to wear that.”

“Ron gave it to me, actually,” Potter’s smile stretched practically from wall to wall. “It’s a Chudley Cannons thing. You know how he is with his Quidditch.”

“Merlin, don’t remind me,” Draco shielded his eyes dramatically. “Does it really mean you have to offend everyone by actually wearing it?”

“I like it,” Potter shrugged happily. “It’s warm.” Damn him, damn him, _damn him_. “Say, Draco, if we’re talking about fashion and the like… I’ve been meaning to ask. That – bracelet thingy you always wear.”

Draco tensed marginally. “That wasn’t a question.”

“Right. Well, let’s hope I do better this time then. It’s… where you keep the poison, yeah?”

He tensed even more. “Yes.”

“I see.” Potter looked down at his hands toying with the cup of probably cold tea. “Do you think you could tell me where you got it from?”

“Humph,” Draco stalled for time. This was yet another good question, and such a fucking mess. The predicament was very clear: the more he relaxes around Potter, the more the arse gets out of him, and the more trouble he puts him in with Him. On the other hand, Draco was already in so much trouble nothing could hardly matter. Also, there was Potter and how Draco was defenceless against him. Emboldened by the knowledge of nearby and ensured doom, Draco shrugged. “I suppose so, yes.” It took another moment before it occurred to him that he actually had to speak. “It’s, er… you know my – the man I was with?”

Potter nodded. “He gave it to you?” There was roughness in his voice which was painfully out of place.

“Do you remember when I told you how I nearly, er, committed suicide?” Draco’s insides were performing a circus trick, presumably involving tight rope and flaming loops. It was highly distracting. “I wasn’t exactly honest with you. I didn’t _nearly_ commit it. I actually… well, I actually did.”

“Did - ?”

“Try. To kill myself. It was a short while after the incident with the guard happened. We were – I was staying at this place, hiding, frightened out of my mind. Quite frankly, I lost it. Every shadow passing by the window was an Auror coming to take me in. Every sound was the search party for me. I knew that if I was found, I’d be taken straight back with no chance to ever… and I couldn’t take it. I found this bottle of bleach in a cupboard. Didn’t understand most of the ingredients – all that synthetic rubbish Muggles use – but I saw the skull, and the warnings. It said toxic. I thought it should work well enough.”

Potter made a gagging sound. “You – drank it?”

“The whole bottle,” Draco confessed to his knees. “I could feel it… burning in my throat… it was excruciating, but I thought it will be over then. I thought I will be free.”

“What happened?” Potter asked in a tiny little voice. “How did you…?”

“He found me,” Draco whispered back. “He, the – the man I – He saw me sprawled all over the floor. He healed me, I have no idea how, must have been some pretty advanced magic. He was furious, but said He understood. That after what I’d been through, it made sense that I needed to have some control over my own life. So… He gave me this instead.” Draco rattled the bracelet and it made its soothing jingle. “So I always had a choice. Even if in nothing else – at least in this.”

“What do you mean, even if in nothing else?” Potter’s voice shook, and Draco was startled.

“Just – with Azkaban, and running away, all of that. Because it was all out of my hands.”

“Draco…” he would have done anything in the world not to hear Potter’s voice saying his name in such agony. “I’m so sorry. I can’t bel- I mean, it’s so hard to hear. It breaks my heart to know you were so… I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you.”

Draco shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s behind us now, remember?”

“But you still carry the poison with you.” Draco thought he might die here and now if Potter doesn’t stop staring at him like this. “Do you think you’d ever - ?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Honesty wasn’t much, but he had to give Potter something, to pay somehow for hurting him like this. “Maybe. If they try to take me back then yes, for sure. If not – well, it depends.”

“On what?”

Draco couldn’t very well say _on you_ , so he had to think hard on something else. O _n Him_ wasn’t an acceptable answer either. “My life, I suppose. If it’s ever as bad, then… I don’t think I could go through something like that again. There’s only so much in me, you know.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” Potter shook his head, and it was ridiculous enough to make Draco actually laugh. “No, I mean it. You’ve been through hell, absolute hell, and you’re still here.”

“I wouldn’t be, not if it wasn’t for Him,” Draco whispered. It hurt all over his body. The normal pull in his abdomen he always had when thinking of Him increased tenfold. Draco owed Him so much, his life and everything in it. And what did he give Him in return? Disloyalty, disobedience, shame. Potter noticed the change in his expression.

“I wish I could meet him so I could thank him for that,” he said softly. “When he gets back, maybe? If he intends to come back?”

“Sure, maybe,” Draco said absently. The dread in his stomach, previously solid, was now diamond-hard. “When he comes back.”

He had to excuse himself to the bathroom so he could throw up breakfast. Absolutely fantastic. He’d have to spend another night on the bloody groats.

~*~  
*The chapter name is actually the title of a book by Dale Carnegie.


	14. Nowhere Like the Highlands

Draco didn’t think too much about Gabriel after seeing him that day. All his thoughts on the subject were a dead-end, and there was no point tormenting himself with useless, unanswerable questions. The more time had passed, the less Draco was certain he was even correct. Maybe it wasn’t the man he’d seen in the flat. Maybe it was his Muggle twin brother. Hell, maybe it was someone else with uncle Rodolphus’s eyes. In any case, he had no idea what the meaning of it all could be, and Draco was pretty used to just letting things go. _Why are they hurting me?_ Let it go. _Why does it have to be this way?_ Let it go. _Why is the only customer whose name I know going out with someone nefarious?_ Let it go. He focused more on things that were close at hand. Potter, for example.

So Potter wanted him to buy a coat? Fine. Draco will get a fucking coat. As if that pesky, horrid, smart-mouthed excuse for a Hero wasn’t involved enough in every tiny detail of his life, Draco decided to indulge him in this as well. He will get a bloody coat so Potter can finally shut up about it and not do any more of his obnoxious Good DeedsTM. Therefore the next time he went to the shop – on Tuesday, since his bloodied knees didn’t allow him any sort of movement on Monday – Draco opened the safe and carefully extracted a bag of money out of it. Then he simply took some notes out, shrugged apologetically, and stuffed the bag back in. What a bloody disaster.

Three years he’d been working there, and still he didn’t know the first thing about the shop. How does one pay the bills that now accumulated on his desk? How was he supposed to calculate things like _revenue_ and _deductibles_ , and what the hell was his National Insurance Number? Draco was at a complete loss. _He_ must have run a shop before, or perhaps was just incredibly intuitive, for He did all of it every single month without fail. At least, Draco assumed He did. Maybe He just charmed the clerks or something and skipped all the Muggle bureaucracy. Draco didn’t know what to think anymore, about Him and about everything in life in general, but for this alone he sure wished He were here.

In any case, now that he had the dough, it was time to go about and make the purchase. When next he had some free time, the following Sunday, he went for it, more than only slightly alarmed. Draco hadn’t bought anything for himself in… well… far too long to remember. Unless groceries count, of course, and even that he’d only started doing a month ago. He was so stunned when he walked into the shop – so large, so detestably lit, and the music so loud it nearly pierced his eardrums – that he almost stepped right back out. But then he steeled himself, gritted his teeth, clenched his fists and thought of England (and Potter). He could do this. He could do this. True that he’d failed before, true that he had no concrete evidence to support his hypothesis, true that he was a barely-even-solid mess, but this time, Draco thought he could maybe actually do it.

Apparently, he really could.

He was just as shocked to find that out; Draco had totally prepared for another fiasco a-la his first trip to the supermarket on his own. But this time was, if not a raging success, then at least an acceptable feat. Draco walked directly to the winter-wear section and pulled a couple of coats that were around his size before anyone could even address him. He put the first one on – a dark blue that reminded him a little of the sheets He liked, before casting it aside in mild panic. The second choice was a grey jacket with too many buttons, and Draco gave up halfway through trying it. But the third coat – a black, rather simple one, a bit long with a smart, sharp collar standing out a little and silvery buttons, was absolutely perfect. It fit him well, which was a surprise on its own; Draco couldn’t believe the image he saw in the mirror. The last few weeks eating with Potter must have put at least ten pounds on his bony figure, and the coat sat trimly on his shoulders. The inside was lined with flannel, soft and warm as a baby unicorn’s fur, and wearing it was like receiving an entirely non-stressful hug. The buttons made the silver in his eyes shine.

Draco would never _love_ the way he looked, not after everything, but this was a definite improvement. The famished, miserable face he was used to glimpsing occasionally when not careful enough had changed, much for the better. There was rosiness on his cheeks and a slight sheen to his skin and his eyes didn’t look so sunken anymore as his face filled up a little. Some of the haunted look that defined him for years now had vanished. The effect was pleasing, even if a little concerning.

Feeling better than he remembered in a long while, Draco paid for the coat at the checkouts (and didn’t even become too agitated when a tiny lady brushed his elbow as she walked past him), and left without making any sort of scene. Outside the shop he looked back in, astounded and immensely proud. He did it, all by himself. Used money like a proper, civilized human man. True that the money was only flimsy Muggle notes and not proper gold like he was used to as a child, but it hardly mattered. Draco needed to get something, and he got it for himself. He didn’t need anyone else to hold his hand or get it for him. He didn’t need anyone else to approve of his choice or decide for him. He didn’t need anyone else. Draco could really, really do it alone.

Of course, none of it would have even crossed his mind if it wasn’t for Potter suggesting the idea, but there was no reason getting caught in tiny details like that. So what if he still needed a little push here and there. It’s been a month since He left, a month of Draco being on his own, and he was fucking doing it. Succeeding. To be alone. Almost totally.

Almost, for two reasons; one, he wasn’t really alone (Potter came every night but for Saturdays. Every. Single. Night.) and two, if one were to get _technical_ about it, he wasn’t really succeeding. He’d broken apart more times than he could count. He was lost further than he’d ever been. There was that spectacular, soul-crushing meltdown not too long ago, when he thought he will never get back up. And more importantly than anything, he failed Him. Draco wasn’t loyal enough, not grateful enough, not good enough for Him. The only meaning to his life – the only thing that mattered – Draco discarded it like some dirty old socks and treated it with appalling disregard. He will have to pay for that, he knew. Draco had no doubt that once He comes back, he will get his sufficient punishment, and it will be truly magnificent. After what He would do – what Draco wasn’t strong enough to even think of – he was certain that Potter would leave, too, and then he would really be alone. A fate worse than death, in his opinion. Assuming he even makes it alive.

Draco tried not to think about it too much. Not about Him, not about the upcoming punishment, not about the ticking clock counting the seconds Potter was still here, before he's gone. For surely he would be gone. He could never stay with Draco after He returns. He could never love him, and even more so after he sees _that_. But all these thoughts were pushed to the very outskirts of his mind and he did his best not to dwell on them. For now, Potter was here. That was everything to him.

Potter, who was so real, close and _right now,_ in the only kind of timeframe Draco could face. Potter, for whom Draco tried so hard to keep even a shred of his sanity. The man who gave him a purpose. The man who wanted him to be bloody warm. When Draco arrived at the flat that Sunday afternoon, Potter was already waiting at the door.

“Draco, there you are, I was beginning to – hey, you got a new coat!” His grin was bright enough to replace the broken lamp in the hallway.

“Yes, I did. Do you like it?” he didn’t mean to ask in such a simpering, hopeful way, he didn’t mean to actually _mean_ the question, but so help him Merlin, he did. He wanted Potter to like it so much it burned.

“I do! it’s brilliant. It looks amazing on you, and it seems a really good quality. Does it do the work well enough? Keeping the winter chill out?”

“Yes, yes, you wanker,” Draco shook his head, but he couldn’t hide the pleased grin that hurt his jaw muscles. “Come on, no reason to discuss it in the corridor like ill-mannered hooligans.” They went inside and Draco, after turning on the lights, did a twist for Potter’s benefit. “So, do you really – “ he stopped when he clocked the look on Potter’s face. Draco wasn’t sure if he’s more startled or contented to see just how much Potter appreciated his appearance.

“It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. I… do another twist for me?” Potter’s voice was so soft and shy, Draco obeyed immediately. “Brilliant. I love it. Excellent choice.”

“Thanks,” Draco breathed, and he meant it so much. Potter grinned at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I just… no, really, it’s nothing.” It took this long for Draco to notice how red his eyes were and how sleep-deprived he actually looked, what with all the excitement.

“Are you all right? Not got much sleep?” he asked softly, and Potter’s face broke into a huge yawn.

“Yeah, I’m knackered. Long night. Say, you’re handy with potions and all, aren’t you? Why don’t you brew me a – what’s it called, a Deathless Elixir or something?”

Draco snorted so loud he startled himself. “You mean Draught of the Living Dead, you absolute pillock. Unless you actually want me to duplicate your spirit? Interested in a little mini-Potter walking about the streets?”

“What?” he looked horrified. “What do you mean?”

“The Deathless Elixir of Babylon? The forestaller of death? Come on, you know the one.” It was very evident from Potter’s flushed face that he didn’t. Draco sighed affectionally. “Snape must have mentioned it at least a dozen times in his class. It’s the most famous potion myth! The one where you can transmit some of your energy into an external source?”

Potter’s confusion looked very grim. “Is that – are you saying – what are you saying, exactly?”

Draco had to laugh. “I’m not saying anything, Potter. This potion is just a myth, meant to scare, to entertain. There is absolutely zero proof that a potion like that ever existed. Probably only people like Luna Lovegood actually believe in it.”

“A potion myth meant to scare?”

“Yes, you know, a cautionary tale. ‘Mix your wormwood anti-clockwise and you’ll make the dead rise again’, that kind of thing. It’s stupid. Hell, the main ingredient is meant to be a living phoenix caught in its prime!”

Potter didn’t seem to catch his drift. “That’s awful!”

“No, Potter, what I mean is – have you ever seen a phoenix? Do you think anyone could tackle one to make a potion out of it? It’s ridiculous. Most of the ingredients for it are either extremely rare or legendary. The draught of the living dead is a real potion, though, but I wouldn’t really advise you to drink it. Even made by capable hands it’s still a big risk. You might never actually wake up again.”

“Oh, well, it’s a pass then,” Potter yawned again. Draco stared at him intently.

“Why the long night? What’s happened?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing’s happened. I… there’s a lot on my mind recently. I can’t seem to get much sleep.” Draco’s guilt was an excitable blowfish in his belly and it just puffed up. “Actually, that’s why I – there’s something I wanted your opinion on. Something I want to show you.”

“Show me?” Draco asked, unable not to sound a little guarded.

“Yeah, it’s a… place. Somewhere I thought could maybe help me be a little more – it’s a beautiful area, I thought maybe we could go for a walk. I can guarantee it’ll be completely empty, so you won’t need to worry. If you wanted to come with me.”

“Where is it?”

“Way up north, the west of Scotland. Not too far from Lochinver. Stunning location, totally worth it, I promise.”

“I don’t side-along,” Draco said carefully. “Not anymore. Not since – “

“That’s all right, I thought you might feel that way, so I brought us a portkey. I won’t have to touch you at all.”

Draco was seconds away from cursing out loud, he didn’t know where in himself to contain all this consideration. “Fine, then. Sure. Let’s go.” As if there was really a way for him to refuse Potter.

“It’s going to be cold,” Potter smiled sweetly and offered Draco his scarf. “Better wrap up warm. Where we’re going is pretty high up, and there’s still quite a bit of snow all around.”

Draco was anxious, but also a little eager. London snow was dirty and disgusting if it ever even happened. Real, proper snow was something he’d not had in a long while. Perhaps even since Hogwarts and the carefree, childish winters he spent in the castle (excluding the last two, naturally, for albeit snowy they were neither carefree nor childish). Potter took a round alarm clock out of his pocket and held it out. “It should set off in a minute. Ready?”

Not really, no, but Draco shrugged anyway. For those sixty seconds before the portkey was activated, Potter’s eyes were the only thing in the world. They were red-rimmed and a little puffy, but still managed to steal the oxygen right out of his lungs. There was so much in them, so much swirling in that bright green, that Draco was left absolutely stupefied. Then the clock shimmered, a weak glow next to Potter’s vivid eyes, and they were away.

The first thing that hit him, quite literally, was a wind so cold he felt it in his bones, very much _in_ them. He shivered hysterically before a splendid heat surrounded him – a heating charm, oh gods, his heart expanded frightfully fast in his chest. Now that he could breathe in the air without hurting his nose, Draco was able to look. So he looked. All the gods combined could not have prepared him for the sight.

They were on the top of a hill, round and snowy and open. Directly underneath them was a loch of the clearest blue, glistening in the sunlight, sparkling like so many sapphires. It nestled between more hills, white-peaked and their bases covered in heather, brown and yellow and orange. Snowy mountains commanded the horizon royally, their peaks buried in clouds. There was not a single human as far as the eye could see. There was nothing but water, heather, hills, snow, sky. Draco felt tears in his eyes, stinging hot. He didn’t even wipe them off. He was wholly captivated. The air was fresh and the land extended till forever and somehow it made the stress just… dissolve. Draco didn’t realize how confined he was, every night in that flat, every day in the shop. He never expected to want anything more than that. He never knew how a stretch of land lathered in sun could make one’s heart broaden till it ached.

Draco wasn’t exactly the outdoorsy type. His parents never took him on hikes as a child, and the life he led as an adult never provided him with many opportunities. But being here – in this place that seemed like a foreign country, if not scenery from a different planet altogether – was heartrending in a way he could not even imagine. He felt frivolous all of a sudden, a light and giddy sort of joy, and a crazy desire seized him to just break out in a run. To be in it, really and completely. And impossibly enough, he – Draco Lucius Malfoy, previous heir to his formidable family name, previously broken beyond repair, who was not exactly even a person, who was so grim and dramatic and dark and brooding, who quite honestly had not even the slightest idea who he actually was anymore – actually went for it. He started running, and Potter, screaming with delight, ran with him. They ran and laughed and ran and laughed, through icy snow and uneven ground, until they were both breathless and shivering with cold and their trousers were soaked to the knees. Potter hurried to dry them off with a spell. “It’s great, isn’t it?” he asked, his smile shining, and Draco nodded.

“Amazing. How did you ever get here?”

“You know how Arthur Weasley charmed a car on our second year?”

Draco squinted his eyes. “Is that the one you crashed into the Whomping Willow?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, after the war he… well, I suppose he was looking for a bit of a distraction, what with – Fred and all – “ his voice broke a little. Draco reached for his hand and grabbed it automatically, without even having to think about it. Here in the open he could do this. Here, with only the sky and the mountains to bear witness, he was free to do it and he didn’t even need to be afraid. Potter’s smile returned, and he squeezed Draco’s hand so hard it kind of hurt. “So yeah, he charmed a couple more. I borrowed one for a few rides, when I felt like… like I needed to get away a little. Apparently there’s this Muggle road trip called North Coast 500 around this part of Scotland and I decided to go for it. Ended up staying a couple of nights in this area, I loved it so much.”

“I can see why,” Draco said honestly, and squeezed back. “It’s fantastic.”

Potter didn’t answer for a while, just held on to his hand, and Draco thought it might be all he ever wanted. The wind was bitter in his eyes but he didn’t ask for Potter to renew the charm. He wanted to feel the cold a little. He wanted to be here, engrossed in the environment until he became a part of it, natural and still and so calm. Here where there was only the water, the hills, and Potter. Here where for some inexplicable reason he almost felt like he could be free.

Potter pointed with his unengaged hand at the next hill, glowing in the sunlight. “This is the direction we’re heading. Feel like walking for a bit? I can summon us a couple of brooms if you prefer.”

“No, let’s walk a little,” Draco said enthusiastically. He felt like a child, but he didn’t mind it in the least, for Potter’s eyes showed a similar emotion to what he felt bubbling in his chest. They walked, and Potter didn’t let go of his hand, and Draco was so happy he nearly cried again.

After a while Potter had no choice but to redo the charm, and reveling in his warmth, Draco sighed and tried to take it all in. He had to stop a couple of times to place his other hand over his heart, which was so close to exploding, it made him feel faint. This – the shreds of blue sky, the loch gleaming under them, the clear air – it was almost too much. It was open and achingly beautiful and more peaceful than he'd ever seen. Draco could stay there forever. Then as they turned a corner to surround the hill he stopped and actually squealed. “Potter, what’s – oh, Merlin.” He was frightened enough to pull his hand out of Potter’s and cover his mouth. There was a disconcerting sound coming from his right, and it took a moment before he realized that Potter was _laughing_. “What?” he asked, irritated.

“Your face right now,” Potter said, holding his sides and bending to lean on his knees. “God, your face – you should see it! it’s priceless.” There were tears of laughter in his eyes when he straightened up. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Highland cows before?”

“Never this close,” Draco huffed, but now that he had a minute to adjust, his heart returned to normal beating speed. He was startled to see anything alive, and his first thought was not of a harmless bovine. Seeing them up close, Draco’s own lips curled into a smirk. “My, what funny little creatures they are.” Ridiculously covered in fluff, black and caramel-brown and yellow, a herd of about fifteen stood grazing peacefully. They had long horns with a slight curve and fringes longer than even his hair. They looked – well – rather cute, if he was being honest.

“Little?” Potter laughed. “I wouldn’t advise telling them that. They’re kept pretty wild out here, I reckon. Look, aren’t they beautiful?” Potter approached one so quickly, Draco couldn’t even shout in alarm - but the cow did nothing, just continued grazing its little spot of grass free from snow. Potter petted it admiringly, his face alight and alive and damn it, Draco felt so much his chest was at serious risk of bursting. He practically ran at him because suddenly they were too far and he wanted Potter close, close, closer. Potter sent out a hand invitingly, but not demanding, and Draco grabbed it with intensity that must have hurt, but Potter didn’t let it show. His smile was luminescent.

“Want to fly the rest of the way? It’s actually a bit of a long walk. I just wanted you to see the loch first, it’s one of my favorite spots.”

“Sure, if you'd like. Do you have any brooms nearby? Where?” Draco looked about as if expecting to see a cabin standing right there, but there was nothing. Potter beamed and cast the spell.

“Yes, this morning I put a couple at the place where we're going.”

“Oh,” Draco said, surprised. He bit his lip, but there was no stopping what his insane tongue wanted to say: “We don’t really need two. One will be enough.”

“Yeah? Really?” Draco had to close his eyes, he just couldn’t stand the happiness on Potter’s face. It made everything inside him fizz. “I won’t mind, Draco. Whatever you want, honestly.”

“No, I want to… with you…” he lost his voice somewhere in his throat, and Potter’s fingers squeezed gently, and the world was such a marvelous, wonderous place. It took another minute or so until the brooms appeared before them, and Potter sent one of them back. He got on the other one and carefully helped Draco mount behind him.

“You can hold on to me if you want,” Potter advised in a neutral tone that must have cost him quite a bit. “I won’t let you fall, anyway. You don’t have to touch me at all.” In response to that, Draco stretched two arms forward and – gods, gods, dear and unhelpful gods – wrapped them around Potter’s abdomen. It almost didn’t hurt.

Potter made a choked sound, maybe tried to say something more, then gave the effort up entirely. The next second they were up in the air, the wind was a fucking pain, and Draco was happy enough to melt.

In the first moment, he was too scared to look. Well, maybe scared wasn’t exactly it; overwhelmed, emotionally exhausted, stunned… fine, maybe scared too. The proximity to another human body, being in the air after all this time, his hands on Potter, it was all rather frightening. But then he forced himself to open his eyes, because _gods damn it, Draco_ – and the view that assaulted him was absolutely divine. Great expanses of heather gave way to water as loch after loch appeared in the horizon. Mountains, steep and sharp, were powdered with a fine coat of snow. And then – Draco’s gasp was lost to the wind – they opened up to sea. Potter headed towards the tallest cliff on the water's edge, overlooking a small town that perched comfortably on a lower hill to the north. They landed on the cliff, where Draco noticed a single country house. Letting go of Potter’s chest was hard because his arms were frozen stiff, but also because he really, really didn’t want to. Reluctantly he did, though, and they disembarked.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Potter asked, and for a second Draco could not respond, because his eyes were set on the man. Then he shook himself, quite forcibly even, and looked around. The sea was spread beneath them, shimmering blue and immense, and the cliff was covered in a light layer of snow. He loved it.

“What is this place?”

“Well, it used to belong to some Muggle farmer, but the weather is very harsh up here. I think he gave up in the end and went downhill, maybe even to that town you can see. The house stands empty now.”

“And you want to, what… buy it?” Draco asked, tilting his head. The place was a mess; a whole part was torn off the roof, more bricks were missing than were actually on the walls, and the windows were all cracked. It was a hovel. Beautifully located, yes, and a little perfect in a hapless sort of way, but also a hovel.

“Yeah, I was thinking about it. For a summer home or something, I don’t know. It’s just… it’s so calm here, you know? I feel like this could be a good place for me to rest. I think if I could just sit out here in the garden – with a serious heating charm or two and a cup of hot cocoa or something – then I could… I don’t know. Relax. Breathe, really breathe, you know?”

Draco knew so much he wanted to scream. “But Potter, it’s – not in the best of states. And isn’t it, I don’t know, a little far?”

Potter shrugged. “I can fix it. Would do me good, I think, to have a project. And there’s Floo and portkeys and besides, I can apparate wherever I need. Also, I won’t be living here full time. Just for vacations or something. That is… I dunno, I wanted to hear your opinion. What do you think of it?”

Draco couldn’t hide his surprise. “Why do you care what I think?”

“Are you joking?” Potter quirked an eyebrow, and he looked fucking edible like that. “Of course I care what you think. Maybe more than anyone else, really. You can’t not know how much I care about you.”

“I…” worlds erupted in flames and expired before Draco could think of anything to say. “I don’t…”

“Come on, Draco, don’t be an idiot. You know you mean so much to me. Like, it’s a little frightening how much.” For a second his expression darkened, and seeing it was like getting punched in the gut. “I don’t… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t expect anything of you, Draco. Honestly. You don’t need to… I’m perfectly happy just being your friend.”

“My – friend?” for, hell, that was enough to make him gag in shock.

“Yes, you pillock,” Potter shook his head, exasperated. “Your friend. And if you go about telling me that you’re not my friend and that you don’t want to be – “

“I do,” Draco hurried to say before Potter could continue. “Want to. Be your friend. I… damn, Potter, of course I want to.”

The smile returned in full force and Draco’s knees nearly buckled. “Good. That’s – that’s very good.”

Draco could not bring himself to try to decipher his previous statement. What did Potter mean when he said he’d be happy _just_ being his friend? He forced himself to move past it, though, before he broke apart. This was a dangerous path to take, and he’d disappointed himself enough times by now to recognize it. No reason to cause more pain to his already weak psyche. Especially something like that which could cause damage deep enough to take him under.

“So anyway,” Potter must have noticed how far down his rabbit hole Draco got, “What do you say? about the house. Do you think I should get it? It’s dead cheap, and I have more than enough for it. And I thought maybe I could come here during the weekends and work on it. I also thought that maybe you could come with me, if you wanted. It’s far enough from any living soul, and I’d put a lot of Muggle repelling charms to keep it completely isolated. Do you like the sound of that?”

Funnily enough, Draco did not like the sound of that at all. He didn’t like the sound of that one bit. In fact, he rather thought to himself he hated the sound of that. Spending time with Potter in this breathtaking, private piece of heaven, just the two of them and the sea and the sky. In the winter, when it will snow. In the spring, when the heather will blossom purple. In the autumn, when the trees on the lower hills will shine in sunset colours. In the summer when the grass will gleam green. He didn’t like it at all. There was only one possible answer. “Yes.”

“Good.” Potter’s shoulders dropped as he inhaled deeply. “Hey, check it out. You can actually smell the sea.”

Draco couldn’t smell the sea. He couldn’t smell anything. Just Potter and his dark hair flying everywhere and his green eyes closing and his lips, so red and soft-looking. Draco wanted to kiss him, a deep and burning need, soft and brittle at the same time somehow inside him. For a moment he thought he might have the courage to do it, but then reconsidered with a shiver. Still, he needed something, more than this. More than standing a few feet away. More.

He couldn’t do this one without thinking. In fact he needed to spend a lot of thought and an incredible amount of concentration to be able to perform this feat of immeasurable courage and equal stupidity. It was an idiotic whim, one that he would surely regret. Only that once he decided, there was nothing that could stop him from going for it; not his fear, practically paralyzing and screaming so loud in his ears he for a second could not even see; not his guilt, ever present, blown beyond proportions and filling almost all of his stomach, right up to his chest; not his sense of ever-nearing doom. Nothing. Potter’s eyes were still closed when he just fell into him, arms stretched wide, and grabbed.

It took a second for startled Potter to react, but when he did it was such a smooth movement, it was almost natural. He just opened his arms and let Draco in, collecting him in an embrace so tight and warm it shut off all the buzzing thoughts in his mind. He held him so tight he’d actually swept Draco a little off the ground, and other than emitting a slight “oh!” of surprise, Draco could do nothing. Would do nothing. Wanted to do nothing. Just to melt onto Potter, to hold on to him with all the strength still in him, to hold like he would never let go.

Maybe it was odd, but this hug didn’t hurt. Not at all, not one bit. It felt right in a way that Draco couldn’t really comprehend, and he wasn’t too interested in trying to. He placed his head in the crook of Potter’s neck and breathed him in until he almost suffocated. This was heaven. Complete and absolute heaven. Potter’s shoulders shook, and Draco held him even tighter, even closer. Being held like that… being so close… Draco’s fear was stuck in an endless loop, and his elation was free to run everywhere in glee. He needed, so much, and Potter just gave it to him. He held him so, so soft and so, so hard, and it was exactly, exactly, exactly what he dreamed of and thought he’d never have. When they broke apart after what must have been an hour or two, Draco saw that Potter’s eyes sparkled with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed there was quite the theme of the *outside* in the last two chapters - lockdown getting anyone else kind of crazy, or is it just me?  
> I was inspired to write this wee Scottish scene by listening to the beautiful music of Julie Fowlis, who is an incredible Gaelic musician who's so very talented and definitely worth a listen.  
> By the way, if you've never seen a Highland cow before, _please_ google them. They are unbelievable, honestly. You won't regret it!


	15. Home-Cooked to Perfection

Potter ended up buying the property the following Sunday, and he announced it to Draco over a mediocre dinner of fried chicken Monday night. “That’s fantastic!” Draco exclaimed, and Potter just beamed at him. “Potter, that’s big news! This calls for a celebration!”

He shrugged. “There’s still a lot of work to do on the house. You’ve seen it yourself, it’s a mess.”

“All right, but still… buying property is a momentous occasion, Mr. Too Rich for His Own Good. We should do something about it.”

“Well, that’s why I brought this – winner winner, chicken dinner sort of deal.”

Draco scoffed. “Not nearly. Why don’t – why don’t I cook something for you tomorrow night?” his cheeks burned, but Draco insistently kept his eyes on Potter. The bastard had already cooked for him twice, and Draco was yet to return the favor.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” Potter waved his fork, but his grin was too wide to hide.

“Nonsense. It won’t be anything too fancy, I hope you do realize. I don’t… you know what, why don’t I treat you to a restaurant instead? Come to think of it, I’m not sure the most festive thing to do would be to make you eat my cooking.”

Potter laughed his warm, bubbly, gut-twisting laugh. “No, no, I wouldn’t dream of it. I am already incredibly excited to try your food.”

“But, Potter,” Draco argued weakly, “you’ve seen my previous cooking attempt. You had to _vanish_ it, it was that bad. Do you really want to eat that?”

“If you made it then yes,” and for heaven’s sake, there was no hesitancy in his voice. “But tell you what, because I really don’t want you to work too hard. Why don’t I bring the main course, and you make something else – an appetizer, or maybe dessert?”

“Absolutely not,” Draco bit out. “We are celebrating in _your_ honour, and if I’m going to cook I will make the main course. Why don’t _you_ bring the appetizer, you arrogant git?”

Potter’s eyes were blazing with warmth so intense Draco felt it all the way across the table. “How about I bring both? An appetizer, a dessert and maybe a… bottle of wine, if you cared for some?”

Draco nodded to his plate, suddenly unable to look at him. “Yes, that – that could work.” The evening continued in a smooth, softly-sizzling-embers sort of atmosphere that had Draco absolutely dizzy and filled him with confusion all the way up to his eyebrows. All week Potter acted outright strange, and Draco just didn’t know what to make of it. The soft glances he’d been sneaking whenever he thought Draco was looking the other way. The absent smile that played on his lips. His body language suggesting all the time he was about to touch, yet never quite fulfilling that promise. Draco was almost bewildered enough to ask, but not all that brave. He just wanted to know what the fuck was going on, because something was _definitely_ going on. Ever since they went to that Scottish cliff – ever since that… well, long and highly unusual physical contact between them – Potter acted off. It should have scared him out of his mind, but the jumble of feelings in Draco’s gut wasn’t dominated by fear. Sure, it was there, it always was. But there was also a sort of… anticipation? Excitement? A deep-rooted desire? Which of course led right back to fear, so there you have it. Draco wanted to shake the thoughts out of his head, but Potter would start asking questions, and the first rule was always trying to avoid that. The night ended on a bit of a sticky note, lingering and heavy, and Draco was beginning to feel extremely anxious about his careless offer.

The next day he went to the grocery store twice on his own. The first time, in the morning before he opened the shop, he went in to get a cookbook, for obviously there were none at the flat. Draco stood in front of the covers and made a total prick of himself until he selected one that boldly exclaimed ‘Top 100 Easiest Recipes Even You Could Cook’ because, honestly, he needed all the leverage he could get. All day long he flicked through the pages trying to find something suitable, and was genuinely irritated whenever customers came in and interrupted his very important endeavor. After closing (two hours early, and he didn't feel a tad bad about it), he went to the supermarket for the second time in order to grab the ingredients for the recipe he finally picked.

It was a cream and white wine chicken dish that seemed sufficiently easy and didn’t require too many items. Draco wanted to cook chicken because of Potter’s silly ‘chicken dinner’ remark, and he stayed decidedly away from any tomato-based sauces after the last time. So armed with the cloth bag Potter informed him he must posses if he wishes to present himself in civilized company, Draco trudged through the aisles until he was certain he had everything from the list he’d made. Splendid. He carried everything to the flat (a little dismayed to realize how heavily he relied on Potter to do it when they both went shopping together – he was still condemnably weak, which should not have been a surprise, but still stung a little to learn) and then began the daunting procedure. All right. No big deal.

Only, it was a bit of a big deal, and Draco’s mind was tired after weeks of battling. Standing in the kitchen hugging the book in his hands, he could not stop thinking about Him. It happened every so often, when his guard was down, and the things behind the iron curtain started rattling. Draco kept the curtain afloat for weeks now, and he was becoming almost an expert in it. Almost. Sometimes his control slipped – like, every time he saw his face in the bathroom mirror, every time he closed his eyes in the darkness, every time he didn't pay enough attention. But other than those times… he was doing great. Well, quite great. At least well enough to survive. And it had to be enough, because there was simply no other choice, and so he continued onwards. Yes, onwards, Draco. No need to torment himself with thoughts of Him right now. Soon enough He will be back, and He will take care of it.

Back to the recipe, then. The steps looked simple enough; sauté the chicken (Draco desperately hoped he knows what that means), add the wine and broth, then butter and garlic, and finally herbs and cream and cook until ready. Draco memorized the steps till he could probably recite them by heart if awakened from a deep sleep. His ambitious plan was to make rice alongside the chicken.

All right, he told himself after laying out all the ingredients on the counter. Step by step, Draco. Nothing to worry about here. This is just a simple meal you are cooking for someone who doesn’t really expect much of you. Someone who just happens to be the best person in the world and whose smile could make cities rise and fall. A man whom Draco did not, under any circumstances, love, and with whom he would never stand any sort of chance. It was important to remind himself of that sometimes, when he was getting really frisky in his own head. The simple, honest-to-Merlin truth of it all. Draco was maybe not so much His anymore, with everything he's done, but he certainly wasn’t anyone else’s, and he never will be.

Focus! Draco’s inner voice shouted, as already the butter in the pan became dark and ominous. Taking no chances, Draco decided to chuck it and start afresh. So it may take a few attempts before he gets everything right. No big deal, right? Right? He can do this. Hell, he bought a coat for himself, faced the terrifying department store all on his own. He went to the supermarket _twice_. He can do this.

But cooking was so much more complicated than a ‘simple’ shopping trip, and Draco wanted so bad to do a good job, he made a total mess of everything. After burning his notorious tomato sauce Draco decided to go the other direction, so much so that he actually undercooked the chicken. The recipe said to stir the garlic often, but it didn’t say how often, and so before he knew it Draco was staring at little black lumps (very shoddily cut, if he may add) swimming around his pale and unappetizing chicken bits. The wine he chose – the wine he could _afford_ – made everything taste sour and terrible, and the herbs became a very unappealing green soggy mess in the pan. On top of it all, Draco added far too much salt, so in the end it tasted like a very salty, undercooked yet somehow dry chicken in smelly socks sauce. Draco tried to add more and more things to get back on top of it, but nothing helped. He added sugar to kick back the sour taste, but it did nothing but make it sickly-tasting. He added water to try and beat the far-too-thick cream consistency, but it didn’t mix in well and it looked terrible. And only about thirty minutes too late did he remember about the rice, which was a solid pile stuck to the pot and did not relent even to his most heartfelt, tear-stained begging.

It’s been at least an hour of hot, messy, exasperating cooking, and Draco saw the end of it completely beaten. He looked at the pan, at the utter mess in it, and sighed. As if it wasn’t salty enough, his tears plopped down and made it, presumably, even worse.

He couldn’t fight it anymore. Sinking to the floor, hugging his knees, Draco broke out in uncontrollable sobs. Hysterical, loud, actual sobbing, something he hasn’t done in weeks and weeks. Not the tears-streaming-silently or the blood-chilling-wails, but sobs. The running nose, flushed face, tears-everywhere kind. It felt, somewhere above the panic of complete failure, so normal, that it made him cry even harder. Then Potter came in and Draco was too far gone to even be startled.

“Draco, what’s happened?” Potter’s voice was tense and tight, and he bent down to his eye level. “Hey, tell me what’s happened? Where does it hurt?”

“It’s not – “ Draco tried, but the frantic outbursts clawing their way out of him sort of rendered him speechless, and he could only shake his head.

“Not what? Draco, please, what is it?” Potter’s eyes were huge with worry and his hands hovered right above Draco’s skin. Desperation leapt out of every inch of his face. “Draco…”

“I’m – not – “ Draco hiccoughed miserably, “not – hurt – “

“What is it then? Come on, talk to me?” Potter was begging, and Draco so wanted to tell him, but he couldn’t even breathe with the way his chest was rising and falling so quickly and his heart was going to explode… he buried his face in his palms and tried to catch his breath, to get some hold on himself, but it took at least a full minute before he was able to provide anything more coherent.

“It’s – the – chicken – “ he let slip between sobs, and Potter’s brows furrowed.

“What about the chicken? Did it remind you of something? Did anything happen?”

“N-no,” Draco cried brokenly, and it was so much _worse_ , because he was being so _ridiculous_ – “I was trying to – cook – for you – and it’s all – “

“All what? Draco, please, you’re scaring me half to death, will you please just tell me?”

“It’s – gone – bad!” Draco yelled between his fingers.

“What?” Potter asked, exhausted.

“The chicken – gone bad!” Draco’s hands were all wet and he rubbed them on his shirt. “I tried, Potter, but it’s ruined!”

“Just so I’m sure I got this right,” Potter asked, and Draco wasn’t brave enough to look at his face so he trained his eyes on his knees, “are you having some sort of fit because – because of _chicken_?”

“Yes!” Draco cried out. Didn’t Potter understand? Didn’t he see what this meant? That everything he thought he was able to do, everything he thought he got through, it was all rubbish. He couldn’t handle anything, couldn’t do a bloody thing right because _look at him_ , look at the failure that he was – look at the ridiculous, useless, worthless piece of garbage that he was –

“Draco…” Potter whispered and Draco did wail now, all of his pain and his hatred of himself and the little shit that he was, the worthless, filthy fucking whore, good for nothing, evil thing that he was. He cried and cried and all the while Potter didn’t touch him, just stayed very-very close and very-very quiet. After some long and excruciating minutes Draco was able to regain his breath and carefully, fearfully, looked up at the green eyes.

“Better now?” Potter asked, and Draco nodded gingerly. Now that _that_ was over with, he was just frightened. He scared Potter, flat out scared him, and for that he will surely have to face some ugly consequences. It took even longer for him to realize Potter was smiling. “Do you want to maybe get off the floor?”

Draco got up slowly, and Potter did too. He waited, but nothing seemed to happen straightaway. Then a terrible thought crossed his mind that of course, Potter was waiting for an apology – stupid, stupid Draco should have seen this, should have been quicker – “Potter, I’m so s-sorry. Please.”

“What are you sorry for?” Potter asked softly, and Draco was only this far from sobbing again.

“Being a f-failure. Startling you. Being such a stupid – “

“Hey,” Potter cut him off, and Draco covered his mouth with one hand. He was still shaking slightly. “You have nothing to apologize for, Draco, but I’m not going to just stand here and listen to you calling yourself stupid, all right? You’re not stupid. Or a failure. Can – can you please just sit down?”

He didn’t even hesitate for a second; Draco was desperate to show Potter that he can be good, that he doesn’t need to punish him, that he doesn’t need to _leave_. “I’m sorry,” he said automatically. Potter sat next to him and gave him a very tight smile.

“All right, let’s calm down. Here, drink this.” He slid a glass of water from gods-know where towards him and Draco drank it obediently. “Good, Draco. You're doing really good. Can you finish your water?”

He tried to drink even faster, so eager was he to hear Potter praise him again, to keep him pleased. “Potter, I’m – “ he raised his head once he was done, terrified and ashamed of his behavior. But then he saw Potter’s face, and not just through his own panic and hysteria. He actually saw him. After all, he knew this face. He knew it for years and then for weeks, every night. And what he saw – here, on the face that he knew, on the face he knew so well – wasn’t scary.

Potter wasn’t going to hurt him.

Draco couldn’t stand it anymore; he dove forward and Potter just caught him in his arms, no questions asked, nothing, just held on to him. Draco sobbed quietly into his shoulder, making the jumper terribly wet, but suddenly he could think with some clarity. Potter wasn’t going to punish him, and he wasn’t going to leave. Potter didn’t care that Draco failed. He wasn’t angry with him for it and he wasn’t angry about this, either. Potter… Potter really did care about him, after all, even after this weird and confusing week.

he pulled himself out of the embrace and bent his head low. “Potter…”

“Draco, it’s all right. Let's just take a moment to calm down, and we can talk about it later. Let me – I’m going to nip to the loo for a second, all right? Here, drink this too, and just… yeah, just try to calm down or something.” He sounded like his nose was blocked, and the way he held his face suggested perhaps Potter needed a moment to calm down himself. Draco drank the water and thought very hard. What on earth was he supposed to do now?

Potter returned after a few minutes, and by then Draco was ready to kick himself to a bloody pulp. “Potter, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry. I thought I was getting past this. I thought I was past this.”

“What?” he asked softly and sat back down. “What do you mean?”

“I thought… I was getting better…” Draco sniffled. Potter shook his head and his eyes were overspilling compassion.

“You are!” he exclaimed and placed his hand next to Draco’s on the table. “You are getting better. All the time. I see it in you every day – I’m sure you see it to. What, so because of this little thing you’re ready to throw it all away? It happens sometimes. It happens to me, too. But it doesn’t mean anything about how far you’ve come. Christ, look at what you did!”

“Exactly,” Draco murmured despondently. “Look at what I did!”

“No, I mean… how did you know what to make? Did you buy a recipe book for this or something?”

Carefully, Draco nodded. “Yes, this morning. I went to the store to get it.”

“That’s incredible! And then, did you go to get the supplies?”

“And I got them all,” Draco said before he could stop himself. “I didn’t forget anything. All of the ingredients.”

“That’s amazing!” Potter’s voice was so warm, and Draco was helpless against his smile. He just wanted Potter to be proud of him, so, so badly. “See how well you did? And you cut the chicken, and the garlic, and you tried so hard to make something for us. Draco, you have nothing to be ashamed of, all right? No one is a perfect cook on their second attempt. You gave it a mighty effort. And it looks… kind of good, really. I’m looking forward to trying it.”

Draco scoffed some color back to his cheeks. “You can’t lie for shit, Potter, but… thanks. I – thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say to that wonderful, wonderful man. That wonderful pillock who for some reason just kept coming back and didn’t walk away from him and didn’t leave him. That wonderful pillock that he…

“No, I mean it, I can’t wait to try it. And you should just see what I brought, you’re going to love it – those little veggie pakoras that you're crazy for from our normal Indian, and for dessert I brought your favorite – “

“Chocolate eclairs?” Draco whispered, and Potter’s smile widened with his nod.

“Yes, just how you like them, oozing chocolate and sinfully delicious. And then for wine I didn’t know if you like red or white, so I just brought a couple of both, since I thought it might be better for you to choose – “

Draco melted into a little pool of heat and lost all bearings of the world around him. There were so many things about this that made him want to grab Potter in both hands and just squeeze. _Our normal Indian_. Bringing his favorite eclairs. Not knowing shit about wine. It was all so, so sweet and so, so real and just – just – Draco could barely stop from flinging himself right back into Potter’s arms. Instead he helped set the table, and his smile was probably never wider in his whole entire life.

They ate in a far more relaxed ambience than Draco thought possible, especially after his dramatic debacle, and it was almost perfect. Potter insisted on eating as much of Draco’s terrible chicken as he could, munching around the edges and avoiding the dangerously-pink parts in the middle, but definitely making an effort. He even called it ‘delicious’ in such a warm tone, and his eyes gleamed so fucking brightly, that Draco had no choice but to smile. There was plenty to eat even without his horrendous cuisine; Potter bought enough pakoras to last an army a week, and the wine he brought (Draco chose red because he couldn’t quite forgive white wine yet) was terrific and it made everything spin pleasantly, and the eclairs were heavenly, and… Draco loved it. He loved every minute of it. Every crease in Potter’s cheeks when his smile stretched for miles around. Every flicker of the candle Potter lit to make it, and that’s a direct quote, ‘just like a fancy restaurant’. Every time his hand came close to Draco’s on the table and just stayed there, warm, solid, inviting. He fucking loved it all.

After they both ate enough Potter made them teas which they had in the living room, as was their custom. Draco loved that they had customs. Coffees were taken in the kitchen, tea in the living room. It was almost like having a rule, and rules were the thing that held him in place. They had just sat down when Potter excused himself to the bathroom (probably to throw up Draco’s ill-prepared poultry) and Draco was left alone to wonder what the hell, the _bloody hell_ , was happening here.

Potter has been acting odd all week. Ever since they touched. Ever since they hugged, when what Draco really wanted to do was kiss him. Every single night since then Potter gave him a look, _that_ look, and now with the help of the wine – blurring the lines, hiding the anxiety, it made thinking almost possible – Draco thought that perhaps he did know what it meant. Maybe what it meant was that Potter wanted to kiss him, too. Maybe what it meant was that Potter wanted –

This insane line of thinking was cut short, thankfully, by Potter returning to the sofa. Draco made sure to station himself at the very edge, while Potter stopped for a moment on his return to admire again the painting in the hall.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said when he sat back down, and Draco opened wide grey eyes to him, “about… your tattoo.”

Draco’s cheeks burned red-red, darker than the wine. “Oh,” was his very elegant response.

“Yeah, I… I’ve noticed it back when I came in and you were… back when I gave you the heart attack,” Potter scratched his head with an apologetic look.

“Near heart attack,” Draco reminded him, and his grin widened gratefully.

“Yes, _near_ heart attack, of course. At the time I didn’t really want to bring it up because – well, I’d scared the hell out of you, but – I thought I saw a… phoenix?”

He needed to clear his throat before being able to answer. Twice. “Er, yes, it’s a phoenix. How much did you… actually see?”

“Just the head and the top of the wings,” Potter waved his hand, though his face was beginning to compete Draco’s for color. It was losing only by a bit, and not for lack of trying.

“Oh,” was somehow becoming Draco’s catchphrase. He thought about it for a second, empowered by the curious look in those damnable green eyes, and the frightening decrease in inhibitions provided by the wine. “Would you, er – like to – see it?”

“Yeah,” Potter blurted out before he could properly give it a thought. “I mean, if you want to show me,” he added a second later with another grand hand gesture. Draco groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Damn you, Potter,” he mumbled, but already he was getting to his feet and his fingers played with the catch of his belt. Potter had given him so, so much, and Draco had absolutely the world to pay back, so what could this little act do, in the grand scheme of things? There was no harm in showing Potter a little bit more. He’d already seen far worse. He’d already seen _inside_ Draco, and he bloody kneeled on the floor with him, so… his debt gathered at the base of his throat and for a second he was choked by it, almost out of breath. His fingers were properly shaking when he undid the button of his jeans.

“Draco, you don’t have to,” Potter said in an urgent little whisper, but Draco wasn’t looking at him. he shook his head.

“No, you… you deserve to… I want you to see it, Potter. It’s all right.” The wine was warm in his belly, the guilt cold in his chest, the gratitude chunky in his throat, and the confusion – well, it just roamed freely everywhere, sprinkling little flakes of bewilderment in every direction like fairy dust. Then his trousers were lowered right under his bum, and with one hand he pulled his boxers a touch and revealed his hip and a little below it. That was as far as his courage could lead him, and Draco took three strangled breaths before pulling back up. He missed entirely Potter’s reaction, but sitting back down and looking at him, he could pretty much guess what it was.

Potter’s eyes were wide with admiration, and the pupils dilated noticeably in them. He bit his lip distractedly, and his face was flushed and hot. There was no doubt he was feeling pretty passionate about Draco’s tattoo, still he felt compelled to ask, because Potter was the world and his opinion mattered tremendously. “You – like it?”

“Like it?” Potter stared at him, flabbergasted. “I love it. It’s beautiful. I… the M stands for Malfoy?”

Draco closed his eyes and thought of the picture he hadn’t seen in a while – who in their right minds would want to see _his_ backside? – and almost sniggered out loud. A great phoenix spreading its wings in a circle of fire, red and orange and yellow, painted over a large M of black and gold. M for Malfoy, right. As if Draco was the type of person to inscribe _his own_ initials on his skin. 

“Well, I suppose it could be that too, but it wasn’t the original intention. M is for the man I was with. His name starts with it, too.”

“Oh, right. His last or first name?”

“Last.”

“Cool.” The silence was a bit too heavy for his liking. “Are you, er, going to tell me what it is?”

“No,” Draco gasped, horrified. “Gods, no. Of course not.”

Potter’s look was confusion in its purest form. “…Why not?”

“Because I – “ _don’t even say that name in my dreams, you big, stupid twat_ \- “don’t want to.”

“Aha.” It was even heavier now between them. “You have a weird thing with names, Draco.”

“What? No I do not!” he exclaimed before he could think better of it. It wasn’t _weird_ that he never said His name. _He_ warranted it, definitely. Also, yes, He demanded it, but… that was beside the point.

“Yeah, you kind of do. You never say Voldemort’s name either. Or mine, actually. Do you think you’re ever going to call me Harry?”

“Probably not,” he admitted truthfully. “It’d be far too… weird. Names are nothing to be trifled with, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Draco sighed and looked at him seriously. Potter was still flushed, and his perfect little mouth was parted and so, so bloody beautiful. “There’s a lot of power in a name, Potter. Why do you think no one called the Dark Lord in his during both wars? The name itself contains magic, very elemental, very crude. It’s a part of who you are. There are so many connotations to a name – for example, yours. I’d be talking to a complete stranger if I was talking to _Harry_.” He trembled with discomfort. “But Potter… Potter I know. Potter has been my – well, very recently, my friend. And a very consistent arse through the years, too, lest we forget.”

 _Potter_ laughed. “You are such a prat, Draco. Okay, so there’s _magic in a name_ , woo,” he floated his hands in the air and imitated what presumably was a mentally-ill ghost, “but I’ve been calling you Draco and it’s totally normal and I love it, so – “ then he stopped, looking quite mortified, which allowed Draco to smirk. “Oh, shut up, you love it too.”

Draco couldn’t answer that without having to cut his own tongue off, so he just shrugged. “It’s easier for you. You’re not a…” he didn’t really know how to complete this sentence. What was Potter not that he was? A wreck? A miserable excuse of a man? A hot pile of shit? All of the above?

Thankfully, Potter let that one go. He eyed Draco closely. “So when did you get a tattoo with your boyfriend’s secret name on it?”

“It’s not His name,” Draco said without much air in him. “Just the first letter. Er… almost four years ago now, I guess.”

“After you were already declared dead? What, is it a Muggle tattoo?”

“Of course not,” he heaved, rolling his eyes. “Couldn’t you see the magic in it? Do you think I would willingly let anyone see – no, it’s not a Muggle tattoo. Actually, He gave it to me.”

“He?”

Draco knew the chances were slim, but if at any moment the ground could open up and swallow him whole, now would be perfect. “Him. My partner.”

“Your partner… gave it to you? What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?” Draco snapped. “He spelled the ink in. It was His design, too. I would never have gone for anything so…” then he stopped, because come on, there’s a limit to everything, and offending _His_ design was just not something he could afford. Draco had done enough.

Potter looked ill. “He carved his initials on you?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Gods, please, open up this cursed living room floor! “It was because… in prison…” he shook his head. He was only digging himself deeper into this hole he created, but if it came between telling Potter more about Azkaban and badmouthing Him, there was only one possible choice. “You remember I told you about this guard who… you remember what I said? He marked me. He – burned his name on my skin, so I’d always…” Draco’s fingers absently brushed the rough denim over his hip.

Now Potter looked so ill it was a wonder he was still sitting upright. “Mark you? that sounds like Voldemort.”

Draco almost nodded. “I told you they were alike.”

“So why did your boyfriend – “

“I begged Him to remove it,” he admitted, teeth clenched. “I thought I couldn’t live with it on my body. Another mark… but He told me that you cannot erase your mistakes, that the past cannot be altered by some shallow mark on the surface. That one must accept their past, embrace it, even the hard bits. When I wouldn’t let it go, He offered this solution. This way I no longer belonged to that guard. This way I was… His.”

Draco remembered their conversation vividly. It was one of the only times when He’d shared something back, even if very obscurely. Not in so many words, He conveyed to Draco His disappointment with His father, and the scars his absence left in Him growing up. It was very peculiar to see Him like that – not quite vulnerable, but certainly open, genuine. It was probably the night he fell so desperately in love with Him.

Potter worried the fabric of his shirt. There was an odd look in his eyes. “You sound funny when you talk about him,” he said reluctantly, almost like he was confessing it against his will. Draco pulled himself back to the present.

“Funny how?”

“I don’t know. Funny. Like you… The way you make him sound, like he’s superman or something.”

Draco knew this was a Muggle reference of some sort, but that was about it. “Pardon?”

“Like he’s stronger than anyone else, unbeatable. Like he can do anything.”

Draco had to think about that. Was He unbeatable? There were other strong men in this world. There was Potter, for instance, right there, and he had the sort of power that made Draco terrified and excited at the same time. Who would win in a fight between them? He bit his lip a little harder than usual as a reminder. Really, he should be able to answer this without hesitation. “Yes, He is.”

Potter laughed uncomfortably. “Sure could have used him during the war, eh? Would have helped us beat Voldemort much sooner.”

Draco nodded, but his mind was still on the predicament. In a fight between Potter and Him… no, it was better for everyone involved not to think about it. Only Draco would be punished for all this, he was sure. Potter won’t bear the blame. It was him who was unfaithful, not Potter. There will be no _fight_ between them, between any of them, only Draco’s defeat.

“Wow, did you see the time?” Potter yawned and looked at his watch. “Nearly one in the morning. I was up since five today!”

Excellent change of subject, Draco complimented him in his heart, but of course that’s not what he said. “Boo-hoo,” he mocked instead. “Little Potty needs his nap time?” though his mouth, the fucking traitor, tore in a yawn as well.

“Seems like little Dracy does too,” Potter smirked, and Draco made a retching sound.

“Remember what we talked about, the power in a name? That one has the power to make me ill.” He got to his feet and Potter did too. None of them were too drunk, judging by their steady stances. “Well, Potter. Thank you for tonight. I hope the celebration was satisfying enough.”

“Better than I could hope for,” Potter grinned, and he took one step closer to Draco, which was both thrilling and intimidating. “You sure throw one hell of a party.”

“Not to mention cook a fantastic meal,” Draco rolled his eyes, but Potter looked very serious.

“Draco, I… thank you so much for doing this, all of it. Trying to cook for me… wanting to celebrate… opening up like that. I kind of forgot to be excited about buying the house with everything that's been going on, I don't know, a lot of stress in the office and - but you made me remember. You made me excited again, you always do. You – you make me so happy.”

“Happy?” Draco whispered, and the sound nearly never left his mouth. How could he make Potter _happy_? He wasn’t even a little familiar with the meaning of the concept. With his tales of horror and gore, his unstable and dangerous personality, he was making Potter _happy_?

“So, so happy. Being around you is – it’s the best part of my day. I love spending time with you. I love your little quips and pouts and the way you think of things, how you see the magic in things like names and… it’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. And you’re so, so brave, you inspire me everyday to be better. Stronger.”

“I… you…” Draco racked his brain for a full minute and there was nothing, complete radio-silence, not even a little siren of alarm. Just nothing. Only Potter could make his mind utterly numb. “Happy?” he asked again in the end, so confused he felt exhausted.

Potter chuckled softly. “Yes, Draco. I am happy. You make me happy.”

Draco’s mouth was so exceedingly dry, he was going to die of it. “Potter, I can’t…”

“It’s all right. You don’t need to say anything to that. You don’t need to do anything, okay? I don’t need more than this. It’s been a beautiful night and I just – “

He couldn’t finish the thought, since he suddenly found himself attached at the lips to one very frenetic and excited Draco Malfoy.

Draco had only ever kissed two people before; Blaise, this one time in the hectic blur that was sixth year, and Him. Neither felt quite like this. At school he kissed Blaise because he was confused and sad and alone and everything was exhilaratingly new. In the past four years Draco kissed Him because he was confused and sad but so very much not alone, and everything was depressingly bad. Now with Potter… he kissed Potter because he was confused and sad and maybe alone and everything was a fucking mess, yes, but it was more than just that. It was… it was necessary. It was right. It was long overdue and impossible in the same breath. And also he kissed him because he really, really wanted to, for weeks now, for years probably, his whole entire life and he didn’t even know. Potter was everything and now he was _here_ here, more here than anything could ever be, and it felt damn _good_.

At first Potter stayed frighteningly, impossibly still. Neither of them opened their mouths, and the world was completely silent. Out of consideration to the special occasion, Draco’s heart very politely stopped beating. But then there was a huge upsurge of motion and suddenly Draco found himself wrapped in Potter’s arms, tight, hot, hard, fingers bruising his hips, his sides, his everything. His head was forced backwards, mouth pried open by a hungry tongue. Everything was spinning – but then it ended so quickly, he hardly even had the time to be scared shitless. In under four seconds Potter was already at the wall away from him, panting, his face warped in utter misery, hands rubbing his eyes.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and Draco could only stand there and shiver, “I – Draco, fuck, I’m so sorry. Shit. Please, I’m so sorry.”

“W-why?” Draco was somehow able to ask, don’t ask him how, he had no fucking clue.

“Why? Do you really mean that? Did you see what I just did?” Potter shut his eyes and bowed his head, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“I did this,” Draco murmured, confused beyond any sort of measure. All the anxiety he just left behind him earlier this evening swooped back in. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“No, come on,” Potter whispered. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I should be able to fucking stop myself from – I’m so sorry, Draco.”

“I kissed you,” Draco said, his horror mounting extremely fast. “I kissed you, and you didn’t even want to – “

“What? What makes you say that?” Potter’s voice was so hoarse.

“You – well, this,” Draco breathed back. “You won’t even look at me.” Stupid, stupid piece of –

“It’s not like that. Draco, it’s not like that at all. I want to kiss you so much, more than you can imagine. I’m just scared.”

For a second Draco could not gather the meaning of what he said, because his brain shut off after Potter said he _wanted to kiss him_ and thinking was made rather impossible. Then he shook his head and begged his mind to work. “ _You’re_ scared?”

“So, so fucking scared. That if I looked at you now, I won’t be able to help myself. That I would hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you, Draco. Please.”

“Please?” Draco was baffled enough to snort, on which he choked pathetically. This made no sense. He was meant to be the one begging.

“Please, just – just give me a minute, all right? Draco, I care about you so much. I’m afraid because – I feel like if I made the wrong move now I’ll just ruin everything, and I… I don’t want to do that. Please, say you understand.” The words both drilled into his heart and filled it with warmth somehow, inexplicably, unbelievably. It didn’t make any kind of sense to him.

“I don’t,” Draco admitted, “but I don’t… hate it, either. I – did you mean it, Potter? Really? You –wanted to… kiss me?”

“Fuck,” Potter said again, burying his head in his hands. “Yes, I did. I do.”

Merlin help him, Draco was lost to the sheer thrill of it. _Potter wanted to kiss him._ Potter wanted to kiss him bad. Every little drop of affection was treasured in this desert in his chest, and _this_ … this was a fucking tsunami.

“So…” Draco asked after a decade of silence. He was anxious to get more. “You will… let me know?”

Potter laughed darkly. “Yep, yes, I will. Probably not tonight, all right? I think I’m a little too emotional right now. I can’t – you saw what I’ve done.” His voice sounded pained, and it hurt Draco too.

“Hey, don’t kick yourself for it. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have jumped you like that – without any warning – “

“No, you did nothing wrong,” Potter finally deigned to look at him. “Okay? Nothing. I’m… I’m sorry, I can’t think very straight right now, I think the wine has affected me some. Is it all right if we, er, carry on this conversation tomorrow?”

“All right,” Draco said softly. “Is this – are you sure you’re okay?” He didn't really look okay. Potter's face was a mixture of nausea, desperation and anger. It was genuinely alarming.

“Yes, I’m fine, really. We’ll talk about it all tomorrow. We’ll pick right where we left off – with the talking, I mean, not the kissing. Er. Because we won’t have to do anything that, um, you won’t – well. I think it’s time for me to go. Been up very early, and… Erm, have a good night, yeah? I’ll – I’ll see you tomorrow.” And Potter quite literally bolted before Draco could even try to decipher the nonsense he uttered.

He didn’t sleep very well that night, for various reasons. There was the obvious, _utterly foolish_ fact he betrayed Him – he’d been unfaithful in his mind, which was bad enough, but a kiss was so, so much worse, even than a hug, than a random touch. Then the also expected disgust and fear that physical contact always left in his skin, even if he was to blame for this one. Blame, yes, that was another powerful reason. Or did he already mention that? Draco frowned on his rug and kept counting. Potter’s reaction to the kiss – both reactions, actually, first jumping into it passionately and then backing out of it in the speed of sound – was upsetting. He _said_ he wanted to kiss Draco, but then why did he run off like that? Why didn’t he stay and kissed him if he wanted to do it so bloody much? It didn’t make a lick of sense. And the very clear answer to that – Draco being so far below Potter and tremendously undeserving of him – also helped keep him up. On top of it all, somewhere in the frantic activity in his mind, although he knew it couldn’t be, he kept feeling like he’s being watched.


	16. A Friendly Chat

_Don’t think about Azkaban_ don’t think about Him **don’t think about Grove** _stop thinking about Azkaban_ stop thinking about Him **stop thinking about Grove** _don’t think about Azkaban_ don’t think about Him **don’t think about Grove** _stop_ stop **stop** _don’t_ don’t **don’t** _stop_ don’t **stop** _don’t_ is there a fucking echo in here? Stop _stop_ stop **stop** enough _enough_ enough **enough** please _please_ please **please** _don’t_ don’t **don’t** _stop_ please **don’t** enough.

Inside Draco’s head was a dangerous place indeed.

He kissed him. He _kissed_ him. He actually kissed him. Draco always knew he was stupid, a stupid, stupid man, but _this_? This was insane. He kept playing that moment over and over in his mind, and each time he was more stunned with himself for having the sheer audacity to do it. How on earth could he let himself – and why, why would he think that Potter would ever want to – The more he thought about it, the more Draco was convinced he’s made a colossal mistake. Gigantic. The biggest of his life, joining the Dark Lord not included. Or perhaps yes included. Fuck, this was bad, this was so bad. Potter may have said he was willing, even looked it for a second – less than a second, less than a heartbeat – but he so obviously didn’t mean it. The look on his face before he straight-out fled was a dead giveaway. No; Potter wanted no part in it, and Draco really went and did it this time. He could only hope he didn’t scare him off for good.

But Draco’s hopes never amounted to much, and by the next morning it was already clear this was a fuck-up of immeasurable dimension. Potter sent a letter with a tiny owl saying he couldn’t come over, something about a hectic day at work and his hopes that Draco understands. In fact, Draco did understand. He understood exactly what it meant. Potter running off after Draco attacked him with that kiss, then avoiding him entirely – that was enough evidence to seal the deal. He screwed up, really, really screwed up, and Potter was upset, and maybe he wasn’t coming back. Draco replayed the image of utter terror on Potter’s face again and again to further torment himself. He spent the night on his knees in a frenzied attempt to redeem himself somehow, but didn’t really think he had a chance for absolution. Potter was a Real and Normal person, and Draco being such an absolute arse around him was bound to push him away at some point. Well, the point was apparently now. There was zero consolation in having known it would happen all along.

Potter didn’t come on Thursday either, which to be fair, wasn’t so much of a surprise. He sent another note, short and vague and sweetly apologetic. Draco didn’t tear it to bits in a fit of rage, but he came very near it. It was all the proof he needed, and he felt sick to his stomach to receive it like that, in broad daylight. All day long he drilled this horrible realization into his protesting mind; Potter was gone, and he won’t be back. Draco failed him too. This was his reality now – alone, completely alone. He’d need to get used to that. He’d need to get used to all of it: his crumbling hold over the iron curtain. The uselessness of his pleas. The fact that Potter didn’t really want – that he probably never really has – that he was only being fucking _polite_ , the _Golden Hero_ he always was, and not really… There was nothing to wait for now beside His return and the ensuing punishment it foreshadowed. The only bright side was that he might die of it. The alternative was so very bleak.

Somehow Draco still made it through the day, though, practically on a whim. It was almost as if he’d said _whatever, fuck it, let’s just see how much longer I can go_. Soon enough he’ll give up, but it wasn’t just now. He had no idea when it will be time. Dazedly he kneeled through the night, thinking that the least he could do before His return would be to repent. He didn’t much think it will help him, but it was a way to pass the time. In his severe state of exhaustion, he actually fell asleep several times, and by morning his face hurt like hell from all the harsh meetings it held with the floor.

Friday loomed just as dark as the previous days and Draco had to talk himself through walking to the shop (he noticed he’d developed quite the constant limp). Potter was always going to leave at some point. Draco was always going to be left alone. The infuriating part was in thinking that he did it to himself, that his own stupidity was once again the cause for his grim fate, and it hurt. More than his face. More than his knees. It was just that he put so much damned _faith_ in Potter, which was obviously an oversight, because Draco should never trust anyone that isn’t Him. It was a well-known fact that no one could love him but Him. So Draco shouldn’t be, wasn’t, surprised. Just so very sad to be reminded. Then, the compartmentalizing genius that he was, he let it all go. As long as he stayed on the surface – away from the terrible, terrible noise coming from behind the iron curtain, over which his control was still waning – he was safe. And so he stayed out of his head for the duration of the working day. He was so tired, it was almost easy.

Time flew by, or crawled by, depends on which particular minute you asked, and in the end Draco went back to the flat and watched the sunlight fade into night. He tried not to attach too much significance to that; the growing darkness, the fragility of the light, the inevitable result… nope – Draco didn’t need the symbolism right now. What he needed was a quiet fucking time in his own fucking head, thank you very much. He was prepared for annihilation. Fact of the matter was, he was always prepared for it.

Then out of bloody nowhere there was a knock on the door which Draco recognized instantly as Potter’s, and he couldn’t react to it immediately, because shock made his legs stick to the one spot. He genuinely, honestly, never expected to see Potter again. True that he hadn’t sent a letter that day, and true that Draco believed him to be a man of his word, but… still. It was very surreal then to open the door and see a pale, distraught Potter on the other side.

“Hey,” was all he said, and Draco was just stumped. He allowed the man in and stared at him until Potter was writhing. “Are you, er, all right?”

“Me?” Draco asked in an undertone. “Fine, perfectly fine.” It was such an outrageous statement, it hardly counted as a lie. “And yourself?”

“Look, Draco, I know you’re mad,” Potter broke out petulantly. “I’m sorry for not being able to come sooner, okay? I wanted to, but there was a lot of work to do, and I just… I had to stay late. I hope you can understand.”

“Mad?” Draco was bemused. “Why would I be mad?” Surprised to see him, yes. Pretty sure he’s hallucinating due to lack of sleep, yes. Out of any hope he ever had for him, yes. But mad? He was never mad. He didn’t have the gall to be mad at Potter.

Potter, who was still somehow very much there, the improbable prat, huffed in frustration. “I know I disappointed you. After – after what’s happened on Tuesday, I know I was wrong to leave like I did. I just didn’t know how else to do it, Draco. I was scared of what I might have done. I had to leave or I might have hurt you.”

“You? hurt me? Never.” Potter must have heard the sarcasm in his tone, it dripped off every syllable and practically pooled on the carpet. “Please, let us go to the kitchen. I see you brought food.” It was rather ridiculous, excusing Potter’s behavior in him being afraid to hurt _Draco_ , and even _Draco_ could see that. Obviously what Draco wanted, what he needed after that bewildering moment, was for Potter to stay there and be fucking Potter again. Running was something he did for his own sake, and they both knew it. Back in the kitchen Draco let him pour the dishes into plates, and neither of them said a thing. The silence was extremely loud.

“So you’re not mad at me,” Potter mumbled after an eternity and rolled his eyes. “Fantastic.” He was making an absolute mess with rolling spaghetti on his fork, splashing Bolognese sauce in every direction. “Good to know you can still hold grudges. At least some things don’t change.”

“I’m hardly holding any grudges,” Draco said reasonably. He really wasn’t angry. Only heartbroken, he supposed. Rejection tends to make one thus inclined. “Do tell what kept you so busy, then.”

“I’m really not supposed to talk about it,” Potter muttered, and he was taking it out on the poor dish instead, very unfairly. But then he grimaced and almost involuntarily spat, “It’s these Death Eater groups kicking up out of nowhere. Been really making a mess lately.”

“What?” Draco was distracted enough to forget about his puzzlement with Potter’s return for a second. “Death Eaters? Again?”

“Well, I guess they’re not exactly _Death Eaters,_ strictly speaking. They don’t identify as such or flash the Dark Mark everywhere. But it’s much of the same crowd, those who escaped Azkaban after the second war. And then some of their less sympathetic friends.”

Something constricted Draco’s throat long enough for him to be able to absorb the words before responding. “Who – “

“I can’t tell you that.” Potter’s tone was very bitter.

“What are they doing? What kind of mess?” Panic flooded his mind and he _needed_ to know.

“There were a few murders recently, seemingly unrelated… a break-in at the apothecary in Diagon Alley… then there was this gathering on Wednesday, ending with thirteen dead at a Muggle birthday party. And the Albanian group – I really can’t tell you much more, but it’s all grim. Very grim.”

“Murders?” Draco was barely able to ask. “Who…?”

“Can’t tell, remember?” Potter’s anger was slowly melting into weariness. “Most of them were Muggles, and it’s all still censured. One Auror, too, killed yesterday. That one was actually on the news, I don’t know if you’ve ever met Billings? And – well, that’s a bit of an odd one, but it’s out there too. They found Fergus Macnair’s body about a week ago abroad.”

“Fergus Macnair? Walden’s brother?” Draco was utterly confused. “I thought he died in the first war?” he heard a little about him during terrible seventh year. Not a marked Death Eater, young Fergus showed every promise of becoming a leading servant in the Dark Lord’s forces – a future he was never able to fulfil when he ended up killed by Aurors during a raid.

“We did, too. Everyone thought he was dead for decades now, but apparently we were all wrong. The diagnostic charms concluded he’s only been dead the past five years or so.”

The lump which developed in Draco’s throat grew exponentially fast. “He – what? That’s mad.”

“Yeah,” Potter rubbed his eyes, and suddenly he seemed so tired and small, Draco completely forgot to be cross with him. He was itching to comfort him somehow, but had no idea how. “Mad is about it. I’ve been thinking it over and over, but I can’t seem to make any sense of the whole thing. What’s the connection between it all? Macnair popping up, ex-Death-Eaters suddenly on the rise again, dead Muggles in London and all this talk about… it’s not… I’m sorry. I’m not meant to discuss it with any civilians. I don’t know why I told you all of that just now.”

“I think you’re exhausted,” Draco offered gently. Potter really seemed it. Judging by the ruby in his eyes and the pallor of his features, he hadn’t slept a wink all night, maybe not the one before it either. “I think you need to take a break from it before it kills you.”

“I heard that one before,” Potter snarled. “It’s always like that with me, isn’t it? you’re working too hard, Harry. You’re trying too much, Harry. But then it’s always the end of the fucking world and it’s always on me to stop it.”

Draco stared at him incredulously. “Is it?”

“Is what?”

“Is it the end of the world? Has a new dark lord risen from the ashes and claimed world dominion or something of the like? Are we on the brink of another war?”

“Well, no,” Potter scoffed. “Not yet.”

“And who said that this one was on you?” Draco added slowly. Potter scowled.

“No one _said_ it was – “

“But you jumped in to take up the reins anyway? You’re so used to being the bloody poster-boy that you’d take that one too? Or, I’m sorry, have they perhaps made you Head Auror and I’ve not really been paying attention?”

“No, of course not.” There was some sort of doubt swaying in the green eyes, and Draco latched onto it.

“So it’s not your fucking responsibility, Potter. This time you’re not the Chosen One or some other bullshit. You have a commander and people who outrank you and I say, _bloody leave it to them_. They’ll tell you where you’re needed, but it doesn’t mean you have to do it all on your own again. This time it’s not your fight.”

Potter shrugged. “I told you. It’s always my fight. The wizarding world will never not be my problem.”

“You’re the bloody problem,” Draco scolded truthfully. “It’s not out there, Potter, it’s inside your head. You need to learn to let it go. Gods know I’ve had to do that. It’s not easy, but… it’s possible.”

It was like he hit Potter in the stomach with the way his face looked, mouth agape, breathing ragged. But then he sort of folded into himself, shoulders hunching, and this new defeated look was even worse. “I don’t know how you do it. All this… I’m not as strong as you. I can’t just let it go.”

“You’ll learn,” Draco said in a very weak attempt to sound confident. “You’ll have to. Hey, if I’ve been able to… right?”

Potter shrugged again. “I really am sorry for not coming after Tuesday. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging. I had a lot on my mind.”

“I can see that,” Draco said, his old wound hardly even tingling anymore. It was so much easier to forgive someone else. It was so much easier to forgive _Potter_. “It helps to share, I hear.” He really, really did want to help.

Potter laughed darkly. “Cheers. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Draco gave him a harsh look. Stubborn git. Then he sighed and decided to try a softer approach. “You know, after Azkaban, I was very, er – reluctant, too. I didn’t think talking about these things could help me one bit. But having Him with me helped tremendously, because He taught me how to do it. And, eventually, having to share these things, the way I felt - it helped me get past them.” Well, past them was a relative term. If he really thought about it, then he wasn’t past anything at all. But talking to Him about it, he did learn how to use the iron curtain, and that saved his life.

At first Potter looked offended for some obscure reason, but then his face softened. “He really got you, didn’t he?”

Draco nodded. “Yes. He – all of it, He got it all. In many ways, it was so much easier.”

“I can imagine. Do you miss that? Having someone who understands?”

There was no point mincing his words. “Painfully.”

Potter must have noticed his expression. “He’d be so proud of you,” he said then, perhaps in an attempt to lift his spirits. “All the progress you’ve made. I’m sure he’d appreciate it even more, knowing all he did about you. If he could see you now…”

There was no way to stop the wild shiver that sent through Draco’s entire body. _If He could see him now._ Fuck, that was a terrifying thought. Although, if he’s being honest… “I’m sure He already knows.”

“What do you mean? How does he know? Have you been talking to him about it?”

“No, of course not,” Draco murmured dejectedly. “I – have no way of contacting Him.”

“So how would he know?” Potter’s brow furrowed.

“He knows everything about me. He always knows how I feel. It’s… just how it is.”

The green eyes did not look persuaded. “But how can he know how you feel at all times? Is he some sort of psychic?”

Draco squinted at him, confused. What the hell was a psychic? “He… can tell, Potter. There’s a connection between us, naturally. A strong connection. When He was here, it was like… He always knew exactly what I – “ _did at every second of every day, thought, was –_ “erm, felt.”

“I don’t understand,” Potter shook his head. “What kind of connection are you talking about? Can he, like, read your mind or something like that?”

That was an odd way to describe it, and Draco was baffled. “I mean, yes, He did use Legilimency in the beginning, but – “

“What?” Potter cried in shock. Perhaps that wasn’t what he meant? “He used _Legilimency_ on you?”

“Well – yes,” Draco’s confusion only grew. “Just in the beginning, though. After that He didn’t need to anymore, I would never hide anything from Him. He knew everything about me – everything that went through my mind. Everything I thought.”

“What?” Potter’s confusion, unlike Draco’s, wasn’t growing, but rather quickly transforming into something similar to revulsion. “What do you mean he knew everything you thought?”

“I mean I told Him, Potter. Everything. I don’t really see what’s – “

“ _Everything_ you thought? Wait, what did you mean before when you said that you _had_ to share your feelings?”

Draco didn’t think Potter picked up on that stupid remark. There was no going back from it now, though. “I merely meant that – well, I told you, I was reluctant at first. I didn’t want to share _everything_ with Him. There was so much I thought I couldn’t handle, not ever. But He… convinced me to do it, give Him it all. And it helped me, Potter. It was good, the right thing to do.”

“But – isn’t that – did he _force_ you to do that? To share all that?”

Draco gasped. “That’s an exaggeration. You’re putting words in my mouth which I definitely did not say.”

“All right, so maybe not forced, but… when he used Legilimency, did you – er – consent to that? Did you want it?”

Fucking bastard. Draco seriously considered lying, but he was weakened from days of self-torment and exhaustion, and all he could do was shrug.

“Draco, that’s mental! That is such an invasion of your privacy! These are your private thoughts, and going into your mind like that – it’s horrible!”

“My _private thoughts_?” Draco scoffed. “There’s no _private_ in a relationship. We were together then. Everything of mine was His, no? Why should my thoughts be any different?”

“But that’s absurd! Of course you’re meant to have privacy! Using Legilimency is a violation of – “

“Potter, we were _a couple_. We are wizards. What’s so wrong with using Legilimency? He only did it for me. He just wanted to help.”

“Can you honestly not tell what’s wrong with that?” Potter looked absolutely desperate, sitting on the very edge of his chair.

“No!”

“Draco, it’s – you’re – wait, so, did it go both ways? Did you also know everything about him like that, like he did about you? Every passing thought?”

“Not _every passing thought_ ,” Draco frowned. “I – well, I always knew when He was angry, at least.” He just had no idea what they were rowing about. No idea.

“You – but – so you had to share everything with him, but you only knew when he was _angry_? How is that equal? How is that any sort of relationship?”

Draco was too stunned to reply straightaway. He had to take some very limited breaths. “Who said we had to be equal? He saved me, Potter. He deserved some… more from me. It was only right.”

“ _What?_ ” Potter was the very definition of shock. “You can’t genuinely believe that. You just can’t.”

“But why on earth not?”

“Because he – no one _deserves_ to get anything from you, Draco! That’s using you – that’s fucking abuse of power! If he wasn’t your equal then he wasn’t your boyfriend, he was your… I don’t fucking know what! Your _boss_!”

Draco thought about it for a second, then shrugged. “Fine. Boss. Master. Whatever you want to call it. He was my _partner_ , Potter, and I would have been dead without Him, more times than I can count. He saved me in every single way imaginable, so – so what if I needed to give Him this in return? So fucking what?”

“I need you to tell me something,” Potter said, his tone suddenly dropping to an icy whisper, and he made a very obvious attempt to control his rising temper. “And I need you to be honest. Did he ever – make you do – anything physical – “

“Don’t you dare,” Draco breathed, outraged. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ end this sentence, Potter.”

“What?” he asked, defensive and hurt.

“You were going to – you were going to suggest he _raped_ me,” Draco’s voice broke, and it was too fucking sticky for him here. “How can you even think anything like that – “

“Well, did you touch him? Did you have – “

“It’s none of your business what we did or did not do,” Draco snarled. “He was my partner for four years, Potter. Of course I touched him. But how dare you suggest – I know what rape is, all right? Or did you simply forget I’ve been through it? And He never, not even once – it wasn’t like that with Him. Maybe I didn’t always – wasn’t as _enthusiastic_ about some aspects of it, but He never raped me. He _loved_ me.“

“But that isn't - I don't know, Draco, maybe because of what you've been through you fail to see it – if anything was done without your consent, without you wanting it to, then it was rape. It wasn’t a… fuck, it wasn’t a relationship if you felt like you _owed_ it to him. That’s not normal, Draco. That’s not what love is.”

“How would you know?” Draco hissed, hurt and bewildered and out of any other fucking option. “Your only relationship ever was a sham, Potter! You’ve never been in a grown-up, real one! You know nothing!” This was absolute madness, and the most dangerous thing he could conceive. Potter could _not_ get away with suggesting something like that, with thinking along those lines, and it was on Draco alone to fix it.

“Maybe I’m not the most experienced bloke out there,” Potter conceded, “but still – “

“No! I’m not going to sit here and be lectured about my love life by someone who’s not even man enough to go on a bloody date!” Potter’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Okay, yes, it’s true, but Draco, you have to admit that…”

“I have to admit nothing! How dare you make assumptions about me – about my life – when you can’t even get a handle on your own?”

“I can’t handle my life?” Potter repeated in an incredulous tone. “Me?”

“Yes, you! You’re the one still running away from everything! You pretend like you’re above it all, the fucking Savior, but you’re nothing but a coward!”

“I’m a coward?” Potter asked, very quietly. His hurt look was gut-wrenching, but Draco was fueled by something much stronger than emotion; his fear of Him was basically an instinct, and he had days of tormenting himself to draw from. _Days_ ’ worth of ammo.

“Yes, a coward! Using your ex- _girlfriend_ as an excuse never to have to go out into the world! Hiding in that hideous house you hate because you can’t deal with the repercussions of what you did! You act like you can save everyone, _protect_ everyone, but you’re a – a scared little child!”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not scared and I’m not hiding from anything.”

“No? Aren’t you? When was the last time you bloody faced anything? It’s so much easier for you to focus on how miserable and broken I am, rather than fixing your own problems! You said you wanted to talk about it – but you can’t, can’t open up to anybody, can’t show them you’re vulnerable too. Every time we even go near it, you bail. It’s always poor Draco, he’s so messed up, he needs help… what about you, Potter? What about the help _you_ need? You can’t even admit you have any weaknesses!”

“That’s convenient for you to say,” Potter gritted his teeth. “I can’t ever be weak around you, can I, Draco? Because you need me to be strong so you can fucking fall apart. Do you think it’s easy for me? Do you think I enjoy it?”

“You know what, Potter? I think you do! I think you’re bloody grateful to have someone weaker, more miserable than you to coo over so you don’t ever, ever have to think about yourself and your own problems. Do you have any idea how much it would mean to me, to know that you’re also – do you know how I hung on to every little crumb you’ve given me showing that you’re _human?_ But you never let yourself be it. You never let anything go and just allow yourself to be weak for once. You’re in such complete and utter denial – “

“I’m in denial? That's rich, coming from you!" Potter shouted. Draco’s voice did the opposite and went way down to a frothy hiss.

“At least I _know_ I’m in denial. You have no clue, and it’s so much more pathetic.”

“Let’s not start talking about what’s pathetic or not, all right, Draco? I don’t think you really have a leg to stand on here. And in regards to your ‘boyfriend’, that’s just - ”

The finger quotes were maddening enough to make Draco completely, completely forget himself. “Perhaps that’s true, Potter, I’m pathetic. I’m a pathetic _piece of shit_ and even I can see what’s going on here. Don’t you think you’re being a bit of a hypocrite?”

“A hypocrite? How do you figure that?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Maybe you’re not my _boyfriend_ , but you’re supposed to be my friend, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you complain about the balance in our _friendship_. It’s all right for you to have all this power over me, but when He does it, it’s suddenly wrong?”

“What?” Potter’s head shook with confusion. “What on earth are you talking about? What power do I have here?”

“How about all of it?” Draco narrowed his eyes dangerously. “You have _magic_ , Potter. You have physical _strength_. You have the _means_ to do whatever the hell you want. You know where I live, you know where I work. Your presence here is _conditioned_ on my fucking behavior. If I displease you, you can just fuck off wherever, and I have nothing to do about it. I don’t get any say in when you come or when you leave. And not only that I’d _let_ you do anything you wanted, because I can’t fucking stop you, but in the end you wouldn’t even face any consequences for it – you’re the bloody Golden Boy, and I don’t even exist in your world. So tell me, are _we_ equal?”

Potter’s face looked stricken. “Draco, that’s – but that’s ridiculous. I’d never do anything like that. And of course my coming here isn’t conditioned on anything.”

“Right, it isn’t.” Draco shook his head. “Shall I kiss you again, then, and we’ll see how long you avoid me this time?”

“That’s not – I didn’t – you said you understood! I had work to do!”

“But that’s not even the fucking point, Potter. It doesn’t matter when you come or don’t, because it’s always your call. Hell, even if I don’t answer the door you still find a way in. And it’s fine, I’m not complaining, you saved my life and I’m ever so grateful, but… you can’t pretend you care for my _consent_ when you never listen to me anyway.”

“What don’t I listen to?” It wasn’t even angry, his voice now, and Draco faltered.

“Well – anything. Everything I asked you for. Remember when I asked you to leave and never come back? Several times? Remember when I begged you to let it go and not dredge up my file? You didn’t care for my privacy then. You were happy to use the fact I owed you, that I would never have the courage to stand up to you. Is that _normal_?”

“Draco, I don’t… I never… I wouldn’t dream of using any of that to hurt you, and I don’t try to – to use any leverage against you – “

“You don’t need to try. It was there from the very beginning, and you never did a thing to change it. You liked it, and I don’t blame you – it must feel fucking terrific to have something you can manage, your own little controlled environment. We both never had it as children, so I can totally see the appeal. But you don’t get to stand there and tell me it’s wrong when you’ve been lapping it up for weeks now.”

Potter looked so, so hurt, Draco stopped dead in his tracks. “I can’t believe that’s what you think of me. That I would _want_ that.”

“Don’t you?” Draco asked in a tiny voice. “Isn’t that why you keep coming back here? Isn’t that what you want from me?”

“Of course not.” He rubbed his face, again this tired and sad little ball of human, and Draco’s chest hurt. “Draco, I don’t… of course not. I don’t want to control you. All I wanted was to help you.”

“You did a marvelous job with that,” Draco said, because he didn’t know what else to do. Sarcasm was his only weapon, and Potter’s morose eyes were a mighty foe. “I’m all helped now, thanks.”

“I’m not… is that really how you feel? That I’ve used you like that? That all this time you were just – helpless against me – that I forced you into this?”

Draco didn’t even know what he was talking about anymore, and of course that wasn’t what he thought, but he didn’t know how to take it back, either. Not without betraying Him completely, and he’s done enough of that already. “That’s not what I – you’re missing my point, Potter.”

“No, I think I got it. Something along the lines of, I’m a fucking monster and you were just too scared to tell me to sod off for real? That I don’t care about you other than my own twisted desires? Something like that?”

“No, I – Potter, I didn’t say – “ How did Draco let it go so wrong? What the fuck did he just do? “It’s not that, it’s not that at all. I’m very grateful that you come here, of course I don’t want you to sod off, it’s just… you know what Azkaban did to me, you know how I’m – there’s no wonder that He’d had to use Legilimency on me, that He had to tell me what to do, I was a fucking mess. It’s not you – “

“Oh, _it’s not you, it’s me_? Are you really giving me that?” Potter’s voice rose, and Draco couldn’t hide his flinch. Which only served to infuriate Potter even further. “What, you’re _scared_ of me now?”

“Potter, please – “ yes, damn it, he was scared, scared he somehow skirted over the previous screw-up only to fuck it all up again, even more monumentally so this time – “just listen – “

“But I never do, do I? I never listen, according to you. Because I don’t care.”

Now he was just getting angry, Potter was being difficult on purpose. “I didn’t say you don’t care.”

“No, but you might have done, for all you think of me! Here I was all this time, thinking you’d actually liked me – thinking that you wanted me here – “

“I do, of course I do, that’s not what – “

“-but it turns out I was just another form of torture for poor, poor Draco!”

That stung. Draco glared at him. “You’re being a pain now, I won’t deny it.”

“Isn’t it just who I am, though? Always coming and going as I please? As if I hadn’t made _every fucking effort_ to be here for you every night, because you said you wanted routine, because you said you were lost without it – “

“Oh, it was such a burden, was it? You coming to support the pathetic little wreck you’ve adopted?”

“Every bloody night, Draco, I’ve been trying so hard – “

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to inconvenience you – wouldn’t dare to steal so much of the Savior’s precious time – “

“Everyone thinks I’ve gone mental, and I can’t fucking tell them a thing, because you _asked_ me not to, and I try to respect your wishes even if it _kills_ me – “

“Oh, Poor little Potter, did it hurt to hear all the fucked-up shit that’s happened to _me_? too much for pure Potter, living in his fairy-tale world with all the pixies and the unicorns?”

“I don’t live in a fantasy, Draco, it’s you who has no fucking clue – “

“Yes, _yes_ , it’s always poor Draco, miserable Draco, pliable Draco to fix and to help – it’s never what’s wrong with Potter, never let’s talk about how _Potter_ feels for a change – with everything you made me tell you, _made_ me tell you, and you’ve never even – “

“So it’s right back to made you, isn’t it? Monster Harry here to force and intimidate? Your saint of an ex-boyfriend could _read into your fucking mind_ and that was okay, but god forbid I miss one night of Draco’s Drama Time when thirteen people end up dead – “

 _Draco’s Drama Time_ really struck a nerve. “You think I want you to be here every night for that, Potter?” _yes, he did, he really did, shut up, Draco, shut up right now_ … but the voice was tiny and it was nothing against the sea of rage, of hurt, of “You think I need you for that? Why don’t you go and solve your fucking murders and save the bloody world again and be the fucking hero?”

“Fine!” Potter’s face was colored with indignation, red and a little purple. “If you hate me so much then why don’t I just leave?”

“Why don’t you?” Draco hollered back. “Why don’t you fucking _go_ already? Haven’t I asked enough? Have I not begged you to leave me alone?”

“Fine! Fine! You want me to go, I’m bloody going! And don’t think I’ll come running back again when you’re having another meltdown! You can handle them on your own if you so fucking want to!”

“I won’t _have_ another meltdown if you _stopped_ _coming here_!”

They were both panting slightly. Draco had both hands on his hips, and Potter’s were clenched into fists either side of him. For a second they just stood and stared at each other.

“Goodbye, Draco,” Potter snarled, then he turned on his heels and left. Draco was far, far too stunned to try and even think of what just happened between them. He could not _believe_ what he just did, everything he just said. It was – no, nope, no way. He was not going to think about it. Not the fight, not Potter, none of it. Just _not_ going to think about it. He simply couldn’t afford to at the moment, in his weak and confused state.

Unsurprisingly, there was no sleep for Draco that night, and his exhaustion could go to hell. Only a constant tapping, like rain, in his mind. The never-ending _clink-clink_ of thoughts hitting the iron curtain. In an effort of immense proportions, Draco succeeded to keep them all at bay until morning came.

***

Hate. Hate was something which was both familiar and permitted. Draco was allowed to hate and he knew how to do it remarkably well. Specifically bred for it, he often thought. He hated Rutgrass and Parker and Field. He hated Grove although he was dead, forever and always. He hated his mother for bringing him into this world, and his father for bringing him into _this_ world. He hated the Dark Lord for making him believe he was an object. He hated Him for leaving him all defenceless. He hated Potter for leaving him all alone. He hated himself for making them both go.

He hated himself so much it bordered on ridiculous.

Because it was his doing, all of it, all of this fucking ordeal. He was the one who joined the Dark Lord on his own volition. He was the one who evoked the wrath of the guards in Azkaban. He was the one who killed Grove, thereby condemning himself to this life. He was the one who let Potter see him, talk to him, and thus forced Him to leave. He was the one who made Potter, who’d actually come _back_ , Potter who hadn’t given up on him, leave forever. He was the one who said all those horrible, terrible things to the only person who saw him in years. He was the only one to blame.

Why doesn’t he just end it all? Why not slip out right before He returns and suffering will be guaranteed? Why not just disappear before Potter decides to come back with a unit of Aurors and march him back to Azkaban? Sooner or later, one of these two men – these men he stupidly, stupidly decided to trust, these men that for some reason he believed to be different – one of them is going to hurt him so bad he will never get back up again. Guessing which one will be the first was exhausting. Waiting for it was exhausting. Giving him all not to think about it was exhausting. So why was he still there?

There wasn’t a really good answer to that, only that he was. Draco did not spend one minute thinking about what Potter said the night before about Him, not even a second. Suggesting that He _raped_ him. That He _abused_ him. Yes, He was cruel, and harsh and unforgiving and sometimes outright evil, but all He did was nothing more than what was Draco’s due, and still he owed Him even more. Potter and his childish, naïve way of thinking… he would have no choice but to learn in the end. _This_ was how the world worked. There was no escaping it. You just took more and more and more until you snapped.

Besides, He loved him. _He_ _promised_. Said it more than enough times and meant it, too, Draco knew that. You can’t abuse someone you love, right? And after all, love wasn’t meant to be easy. Love was meant to be hard, and Draco didn’t deserve it as it was, so… nope. Not a second did he spend thinking about it. Not at all.

He didn’t think of the awful things he said to Potter, either. How he accused him of manipulation and indifference when all he wanted to do was kiss his boots and beg his forgiveness. Not that what he said was completely wrong – there was enough truth in it to sting, for sure – but to blame Potter for doing it _knowingly_ was just evil. Potter wasn’t a bad man. Potter was good, the epitome of good, he was good in a solid form and Draco made him so angry that he left and he’d never return, really this time. It hurt too much to consider, so Draco didn’t think about it, not even for a moment. Not at all.

Instead Draco thought about hate. How he hates, hates, hates everything and everyone. How this whole world was nothing but a big, miserable ball of _yuck_. How he couldn’t even come up with adequate adjectives because he was so extremely tired after not having slept in about forever. That could maybe explain why the curtain was so unstable that Saturday. The mild _clink_ became a mighty loud knock and then a deafening series of bangs, and Draco was going to lose it, was losing it, lost it. It was lost. All was lost.

It was hard to hear at first, because he was so preoccupied by the cacophony of noises in his own head, but there was actually something going on outside the door as well. Draco, who collapsed on the sofa upon returning from the shop, partly thinking he’d never get up from it again, frowned. Definitely someone outside the door. It wasn’t one of His colleagues – there were no discernable swearwords or general shouting. It wasn’t Potter – he’d at least have the curtesy to knock if he ever returned. Instead someone was – doing something odd; at first it was a loud crash, and then panting, by the sound of it, and maybe grunting something in a very low tone. Draco sighed. Then he sighed again. And then once more, because this rude, heavy-breathing intruder just wouldn’t leave. When it’s been at least two minutes and no change to the situation, Draco got to his feet. Something needs to be done about this. He was scared, but he was also pissed off, and he hated everything to an extent of not giving too many fucks.

He stopped right in front of the door. _What if whoever it is out there wants to hurt you?_ Then fucking let them. He didn’t care anymore. Draco drew a deep breath, shook his head until it was almost cleared of the ceaseless buzz, and steeled himself. _You don’t care_ , he reminded himself. Dying will probably be easier than this.

Then he opened the door, and for a second the world stopped making sense, because whatever it was he thought he’d see in the hall, _this wasn’t it_.

Perhaps he actually screamed; it was impossible to tell exactly what happened, because all Draco could see was the blood, all he could hear was a faint screech of _no, no, no!_ in the most desperate of cries, and all he could think was _this can’t be happening_. Because it couldn’t be happening. Fucking hell, there was no chance this was happening. Harry Potter was not lying on the floor outside his door, torn into so many pieces it was hard to make out the general shape of him, critically wounded.

It simply could not be happening. But it was. Harry Potter was unquestionably lying on the floor outside the door, and if he keeps bleeding like that, he will soon be a very dead Harry Potter on said floor. Draco would not have known it was Potter, either, unless he recognized the glasses. The eyes behind them were shut. Draco wondered for a second if the screams he hears are coming from his own lips, or if someone out there had just lost their will to live. It hardly mattered at the moment. Potter’s eyes were closed, and there was a likely chance Draco would never get to see them open again.


	17. Emergency

Draco fell to his knees by the bloody figure, and it took less than five seconds for him to get drenched beyond recognition. “Potter,” he whispered desperately, touching here and there, trying to find the source of the bleeding, but it was a futile effort; there were numerous cuts, too many to spot, too deep to stop, and they gushed in terrifying speed. “Potter, no,” Draco groaned, and in the little light that poured from the open door – the lightbulb in the hall still wasn’t fixed, bloody super – Potter’s face looked so pale, he seemed already dead. But Draco could still hear his soft breathing when he pressed his ear to Potter’s nose, and his chest still rose and fell, albeit slowly.

 _Think,_ Draco begged his mind, but it was like asking a wild tarantula to go fetch his slippers. Draco’s mind wasn’t built for situations like these. It wasn’t used to being relied upon, or even trusted. And right now it did nothing, nothing to help him. But he had to think – he had to do something for Potter, something for _dying Potter_ who was _dying_ right here in the corridor – he had to do _something_ – Draco put his fingers on some of the more dramatic wounds, pressing hard, mumbling hysterically all the while. There were a lot of ‘Potter, no’s and ‘Potter, please’s and ‘Potter, please, _please_ come back’s that helped in absolutely no way. Draco was in utter panic and he didn’t know what to do. Potter was losing blood in record breaking speed. Soon he will have none left in him and Draco could not, under any circumstances, let that happen. He had to do whatever he could to save this bloody prick – pun absolutely not intended. He had to do something.

But what? What could help someone who lost so much blood? Potter’s face was puffed up and sickeningly colorless. If Potter was poisoned, Draco could have used Bezoar, assuming he had some. Not that he did – he had nothing, fucking nothing, always nothing – but it wouldn’t even _help_ now. What Draco needed was a replenishing potion, a regeneration mixture or something of the like – but he had almost none of the ingredients and none of the fucking time. He couldn’t start brewing a potion now – it would take hours, and Potter didn’t even have minutes. “Come on, Draco,” he told himself, and just for good measure slapped himself hard on both cheeks. They were now smeared with blood. “Think, gods be damned, think!” he saw Potter’s wand sticking out of the pocket of his trousers, and wished so bad he could do healing magic. He was absolute shit at that, and only knew the most basic of incantations. Still, because what the fuck else could he do, Draco pulled the sticky wand and waved it around helplessly. “Episkey! Reparo! Sanguis Plenus!”

There were minor movements in the air, a flutter of sparks, and perhaps some of the less foreboding cuts even closed. It didn’t matter, because it didn’t come close to being enough. Draco cursed himself for being a weak, stupid pile of… but there was really no time for that. If Potter dies, then he can beat himself up all he wants. Draco’s throat became the host of the biggest lump ever. No, Potter couldn’t die. Draco couldn’t let him. And all the while he was losing more and more blood, his face becoming paler and paler, and Draco was probably screaming out loud now, Potter’s wand shaking in his hand.

What can he do? What can he bloody do to stop this? He didn’t have any other spells that could be relevant. They taught him how to torture and how to kill, but had no one ever thought to teach him how to heal, for crying out loud? Draco rolled into himself, soaked in Potter’s blood, so helpless he felt sick. What could he use? No amount of bandaging could help Potter. Draco wasn’t able to apparate them to St. Mungo’s – he never learned how to do it properly, and trying it now would definitely result in Potter being splinched to death. Presuming he can even _try_ , given the shaky state of his magic, which with this ongoing stressful situation could only get worse. What, then? What? Potter made a gurgling choked sound on the floor, and Draco’s eyes filled with stinging tears he had no patience for. “It’s going to be okay,” he said to them both, absently stroking Potter’s hair with the hand not holding the wand. “Potter, don’t worry, it’s going to be okay. I can fix this. I will fix this.” But how, how was he fucking going to do that?

Draco never performed well under pressure, and now he was on panic level infinity. Potter was dying in his very hands and he had no way to help him. No spell to cast or antidote to administer or potion to give – not even fucking Muggle medicine he could use – he had nothing. Frantically, desperately, Draco tried to think of what he would have given Potter if he had anything in store. Definitely a blood-replenisher, that was a given. A mixture to replace all the torn flesh. He'd have done something for the broken bones, too, since Potter's arm was bent in a very unnatural way and something white was protruding out of what should have been skin over his ribs. Perhaps a potion for pain as well, because this must have been hell for him. He needed healing potions, any kind of healing potion possible. Draco would have poured bloody dittany down his throat if he had any. He would have stuffed thorn apple up his nose if –

Now he certainly did yell out loud; Draco jumped to his feet fast enough to startle even himself out of pure shock, then fell back to his knees for better balance. His hand trembled too much at first, but he willed it to relax with what must have been supernatural strength, and cleared his mind entirely. “Accio thorn apple!” he shouted, and concentrated _all_ of his energy into it, into this pull happening around his hand, emanating from Potter’s wand. All of him – even the stuff that was behind the curtain, even the parts of him which haven’t seen the light of day in years and years, everything was drafted into this effort. For a moment it was impossible to say if it worked – Draco hadn’t used any proper spell in so long, he didn’t even know what to expect. And now, especially now… he buried his head in Potter’s bleeding form, whispering, pleading him to wait. Just to wait a little… not to die yet, not when there was maybe something he could do – maybe –

Then it zoomed right into his face; the whole plastic casing and the flowers inside it, roots and all, crashed into his nose. Draco released the loudest gasp in existence and ran inside to grab a glass and fill it with water. There was no time for a second attempt with his magic. He needed to make sure what he does now is right, and if his estimation is correct, he probably had under a minute to make it work before it’s too late.

First he tore the petals and crushed them in his fingers, mulling them into tiny pieces. He dropped it all in the water, then took the root of the flower and cut into it with a little kitchen knife. He was careful to carve around the thin veins in the root, and got about three inches of it into the water, shaking the glass vigorously. The final step was taking a single green leaf, cutting it neatly in two and inserting the left piece, mixing the whole thing thrice in an anti-clockwise motion. Draco watched the liquid in the cup darken then brighten, until it was clear again. When the process was complete he ran as fast as he could back out to the corridor, skidded on his knees next to Potter, and tried very hard not to throw up. In the fifty seconds he’d been away, Potter had become deathly pale. He was almost a ghost.

Not on his fucking watch.

Draco lifted gently and propped Potter’s upper body against the wall. Then with careful fingers he opened Potter’s lips and poured the mixture into his mouth. “Please work,” he begged the plant, praying to any and every deity in this world and others who could maybe help. “Please, please work. Don’t let him die. Please don’t let him die.” Potter seemed to be having trouble swallowing, but Draco forced it down his throat, clapping his back and making him cough. “Come on, Potter,” he egged him on, “Don’t be a prick now – that’s right, nice and easy, drink it all. You’re almost there, Potter. Come on, almost there. Don’t you fucking dare die on me, all right? Come on, you wanker. Just a few drops more – excellent, you did it.” He swept some drenched locks out of Potter’s eyes, and crouched near his face to listen to his breathing. It was still there, though getting fainter. “Come on, you prat. Come on. Don’t give up on me. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Draco had been through several stressful situations in this life, some of them including a near-death experience. Usually, it was his own near-death. Draco decided, there in the dark and deserted hall, that he much rathered them. Watching someone _else_ almost die was at least a million times worse. And when this someone was Potter –

A mighty cough rocked Potter’s torso, and Draco held on to him in both hands so he doesn’t fall. Excruciatingly slow, the deep gashes in Potter’s flesh seemed to shrink, until they supposedly disappeared. It was very hard to tell with all the hardly congealed blood still flowing freely all over his body.

“Potter?” Draco asked in a tiny voice. “Potter, can you hear me?”

Another cough, but the pallor on his cheeks was less death-like now, and Draco felt like – for the first time in many long minutes – he can actually breathe. “D-draco,” he spluttered, and Draco shushed him softly.

“It’s all right, you’re all right. Don’t tire yourself now.” He was rather surprised to discover his fingers softly brushing Potter’s face. His surprise, however, did not make them stop. “Shush, you’re okay. Here, drink some more.” Potter’s lips parted and Draco poured a few more drops into his mouth. “Excellent. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

The longest minute of his life went by, every second weighted and painful, but Potter’s face gained a tiny bit of color and his breathing became more regular. “You… saved me,” he whispered, eyes suddenly opening. Draco wished they hadn’t; the light in the green was hard to bear.

“Is this how you finish all your fights?” Draco asked instead of replying, still inexplicably stroking Potter’s matted hair. “Get the other person to save your life, so they can’t be mad anymore?”

“Worked before,” Potter grinned, then fell into a fit of coughs. When it was done he raised his head back weakly. “How - ?”

“Thorn apple,” Draco answered flatly. He hardly believed it himself. “Potter, what happened? Who attacked you?”

“I – how did – ?” Potter’s voice was strained and tiny, and it made Draco’s teeth clench.

“I used your wand,” he admitted and gently placed it in Potter’s palm. “I summoned it from the shop. Who did this, Potter? Did it happen here? I don’t understand how you’d – “ but then he thought about it, and suddenly a new fear added its claws to the ones already gripping his heart. “Potter, I used magic, brought it here with magic – someone would have seen, someone would be asking – someone could be coming here, could see me – “

“Hold on,” Potter whispered. Draco wanted to argue since he didn’t think Potter was anywhere near strong enough to apparate them, but the man was truly a magnificent wizard; his knees never even left the floor and at the next moment the world was reduced into void. In the one after that, Draco was fairly certain they weren’t in the hall anymore. It was just as dark, but in a very different way, far more sinister and stuffy. Draco looked up, the realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. Grimmauld Place. Potter apparated them to his home.

***

“You idiot,” was the first thing he said, once the panic subsided and he had enough air to talk. “Not your house – you need to go to St. Mungo’s! Apparate yourself to the hospital, I can’t take you there!”

“No – need – “ Potter coughed, proving there was absolutely a need. “Kreacher?”

“What the – Potter, I’m not bloody kidding, go to the hospital _right now_ , or – “

“Kreacher?” the sodding git ignored him and continued spitting nonsense. “Are you – oh!” a mighty crack made Draco nearly faint with fright, until he realized the source of it was an ancient house-elf.

“Master Harry is calling – Master Harry!” the elf did his best to run to Potter sprawled on the floor, but his tiny limbs made the effort take longer. “Master Harry is hurt – “

“Kreacher, bring – potions kit?” Potter’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, which then proceeded to fall unceremoniously to the carpet. For a second the house-elf just stood there and stared at Draco instead.

“You heard him!” Draco hollered, far too anxious to watch his tone. “Potions kit, now!”

The seconds until the little creature returned with the box were the worst in Draco’s life. Potter looked better than he did in His corridor, true, but still incredibly weak and probably in a life-threatening condition. Why, why didn’t the tosser just go to the hospital, instead of sentencing himself to dying here? Does he not know Draco can’t take him? Does he not know he can’t save him?

Then the blasted thing returned and thrust the kit at Draco’s feet, and he hurried to look inside. Potter kept absolutely no order in his belongings, which was so fucking typical, and Draco wasted many precious seconds trying to locate the right vial, until – “Ha!” he uncorked the bottle and swiftly poured four drops into Potter’s mouth. It was a rough estimation, and a wrong dose could have been deadly, but Draco had absolutely no time for bullshit. If there was something he knew he was good at, it was this. Potter’s eyes fluttered back open and Draco released a frantic gasp.

“Potter!” Oh gods, oh gods, he was awake, but it still could be critical – there was only one reasonable thing to do – “St. Mungo’s, _now_!”

“No – no hospital.”

“But why?” Draco kneeled next to him, slowly helping him up as Kreacher brought a chair he could lean on. “Potter, please, I can’t fix it on my own. Please. I – “

“Kreacher can help, Sir,” the elf said in a creaky little voice, and Draco was startled enough to be called _sir_ not to stop his little hands from grabbing the kit. “Kreacher has healed Master Harry many times before. Master Harry always comes home to Kreacher hurt.”

Draco desperately hoped this was an exaggeration, but it did seem like the elf knew what to do. His hands moved quickly and efficiently, ridding Potter of the tatters which used to compile his shirt, smearing some sort of healing balm on the scarred and maroon-stained skin. Potter sighed his relief.

“What can I do?” Draco asked after getting sufficiently past his shock. He rummaged through the potions some more. “Here, you should give him this too – “

“Master Harry never likes the pain medicine,” the elf objected, but Draco had no fucking patience for this.

“I don’t care what Master Harry likes!” he cried, and gave Potter a murderous look. “You will take it, or so help me Salazar – “

“Fine,” Potter whispered, and the ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Whatever you – want.” His sentence was interrupted halfway by coughing, and his face contorted in pain. Draco’s heart burned like all the fires of hell combined.

“Don’t worry, Potter, it’s going to be all right,” he said automatically and administered some of the pain-relief potion. “Kreacher, we need to do something about his broken bones – his rib in particular – “

“Please leave Kreacher to do his job, Sir,” the elf said with a mighty dose of self-importance, and Draco was able to relax somewhat. It really did look like he knew his business. Kreacher bandaged Potter’s abdomen after cleaning it (Draco couldn’t bear to look once all the blood was removed, because a mutilated torso was one thing, but a relatively healed one – well, was something else, clearly), and Potter’s breathing became less constrained. Some long ten minutes passed with the elf working silently, until Draco gathered enough courage to speak again.

“Is he going to be all right?” was all he could ask. The elf nodded.

“Master will be fine, yes. Kreacher can take Master up to his room, if Sir will allow it.”

It took a while for Draco to understand he meant _him_ , although he looked right at him and there was no one else in the room. Hesitantly he nodded. “Er, sure. You can – erm – yes, that will be fine.” Giving orders now when he was no longer panicked out of his mind was the single weirdest thing in the universe. Weirder than being indoors in someone else’s house, something he hasn’t done in years. Weirder than all the touching Potter he just did, more touching anyone than he did in years and years. Weirder than caring, caring _so much_ , caring _so much_ that his chest was heavy and his eyes burned and his hands shook, like he hadn’t in years and years _and years_. The elf took Potter upstairs with his magic, and soon Draco was left kneeling alone on the floor in this foreign hall, still trembling, still lost. He had no idea what to do. He had no idea what he could do. Was Potter really going to be all right? Was there something else that needed to be done for him, something that Draco should really be able to think of, something he’s missing? His exhaustion, now returning with a flourish, made it rather impossible to say. The elf says he’s fine, and the elf knows what he’s talking about, so Potter has to be fine.

Draco drew a very long breath. There were other things to consider, of course. For example, what the hell happened to him? Who attacked Potter like that, and where, but most importantly – why? And on an unrelated note, all the magic Draco used – having objects floating down busy streets like a total pillock – leaving a bloody murder scene in the corridor – had anyone noticed? Or, more accurately, _who_ noticed and what was being done about that? Are Aurors storming the flat now in the name of the Statute of Secrecy? Will Draco ever be able to return there? And what about Him? By this point, the shuddering became so intense Draco fell from his knees and settled on his arse. He was far too tired to think about all that, and still so very scared for Potter, breathing was a struggle. Shakily he forced his legs to work and started searching the house for the blighter’s bedroom.

Grimmauld Place was pretty much how he’d remembered it, a dark and uninviting horror. There were no more severed heads on the walls, thank Merlin, but the atmosphere of the place was barely improved by it. Draco found he could tell where the kitchen was, and the sitting room where he met his frightening great-aunt, without having to think too hard. Carefully he took himself up the stairs, the creaking, terrible stairs, and started scanning the rooms. He found Potter on the first floor in one of the only bedrooms that weren’t moldy and bare. Kreacher had washed him, presumably, and placed him on the four-poster bed. Potter’s hair was wet, but with water now, and the top of his chest – heavily bandaged – was just visible beneath the duvet. The little elf hopped off the bed just as Draco entered and bowed.

“Kreacher is finished for now, Sir,” he told the floor. “Master Harry should be given more of the potions in – “

“An hour, yes, I know,” Draco murmured uncomfortably. He terribly wished the elf would just look up at him. Being treated like a master was highly upsetting, and he’s already been through so much tonight. “I will give him the potions. You can – thank you very much. For, er, helping him.”

“Kreacher is happy to be of service, Sir,” the elf bowed again, and Draco wanted to scream, he was so uncomfortable. “Call Kreacher if you need anything else.” With that he disappeared, and Draco was left alone with (hopefully) sleeping Potter.

He approached slowly, gingerly. Potter still looked paler than his usual self, but his breathing was deep and sound, and his face relaxed like he was really just asleep and nothing had happened. There was something very innocent about Potter’s sleeping face, very unguarded, and it hurt like a fucking Crucio to see. Draco found himself shaking again. Potter almost died tonight, and he had no idea what the hell happened. He could still be in danger. Someone could still be out to get him. _Someone was always out to get him_ , Draco reminded himself coolly. Ever since he was a baby, someone was trying to kill him. And Draco was bold enough to call him a coward? To tell him he was acting like a child? To blame him in rejoicing in Draco’s weakness? If he could, Draco would have slapped himself raw. As it were he needed to hold the bed post to remain standing. He was so, so sorry, for everything he said, for everything he thought about Potter in the past few days. Potter didn’t deserve any of it. Even if some was true – could have been true – it didn’t matter. Potter was so brave. Potter was so wonderful. Potter was… before he really knew what he was doing, Draco’s other hand sent to his face, and he brushed wet hair away from his eyes. Potter murmured something in his sleep, but did not stir. Draco found he simply could not take it anymore, and fell to his knees by the bed.

They will talk about it all tomorrow. Draco would offer his most sincere apologies, and beg Potter to forgive him, to return to his life. How could he fool himself into thinking he could live any other way? How could he tell himself he _hated_ Potter? He didn’t hate him, of course not. This, what he felt for Potter now – like his heart was doing cartwheels and gravity was nothing but a silly joke – was perhaps insane and disturbingly misguided, but it was there, and it could not be denied. Not even his fear of Him was this intense. Draco would die if anything happens to Potter, he knew that now. If Potter doesn’t forgive him… he couldn’t stand the thought. Potter was everything. For a second, Draco was swept away by how feverishly he despised himself – stupid, stupid Draco, always needing to learn everything twice, always forgetting the simple yet irrevocable truth, never clever enough to remember. Well, he remembered now. He knew now. Potter was everything, and Draco would not let him go, not if he can help it. And if he can’t – if Potter refuses to forgive him… he bit his lip until it bled. Then he will really go down in flames.

Draco had to pinch himself continuously to remain awake, since at this stage of exhaustion, even all the adrenaline was beginning to wear off. When the little alarm clock Potter once used as a portkey signaled it’s been an hour, he pried Potter’s mouth open and coaxed four more drops of the thick potion down his throat. Potter frowned, but he swallowed obediently, and Draco hated just how sweet his face looked. Just to be on the safe side he gave him a bit more of the pain-relief potion too, and made sure the bandages weren’t soaked yet and in need of changing (not that he thought he could do it himself. He would have called Kreacher. There was a time and a place for being adventurous, even for trying to be brave, but he won’t be helping anyone by fainting all over Potter). When all was set and done he sighed and sat down on the rug next to Potter’s bed.

He won’t need another dose of any of the potions for at least a few hours. Until then, Draco should try and get some rest. He can only keep going so far, and already his eyelids began to feel sticky and heavy, and keeping them up was a continuous fight. He was so tired, he didn’t care how utterly filthy he was. Draco gave one long, revering look up to Potter’s sleeping face, to his slow and peaceful breathing. A weird desire stole over him suddenly, a strange sort of jealously. He wished, for the tiniest of seconds, to be Kreacher. To be able to touch Potter without making such a big deal of it. To be able to call him Master Harry like that, with the full certainty that he belonged to him. _Master Harry._ It made him shiver in a pleasant sort of way.

Draco curled into a ball and made himself comfortable on the rug. It wasn’t as soft as the one in the flat, and it was a little scary, not knowing the area as well, but Potter was right there and he was tired enough for it not to matter. In less than a minute Draco was asleep, really asleep, and his dreams weren’t even half bad.

***

He spent the whole day by Potter’s bed. Kreacher changed his dressings twice while Draco intently looked away – some of the deeper cuts kept reopening, which was highly concerning. If Draco had any sense in him, he would have brought the rest of the thorn apple with them to make more extract from, but of course he didn’t. Instead all he could do was pilfer through Potter’s meagre collection of potions and salves, and with Kreacher’s assistance make use of whatever he could think of. Potter only woke up sporadically and for very short durations of time. Kreacher fed him broth and tea, but he wasn’t able to keep anything down for very long, which was another bad sign. When night fell again and there still was no change in his situation, Draco became very worried indeed. With a sigh he sat on Potter’s bed, next to the lying figure, and stared at him with intensity that could surely raise the dead.

It was a very vexing wait, but in the end it did work, even if it took a while longer. Spluttering a little Potter came to around half seven, looking everywhere with a start. “What – where – Draco?”

“You’re okay,” Draco said, perhaps as reassurance for Potter, or for himself, or maybe it was actually a question. His voice was a little crackly with relief. “How are you feeling?”

“Nrgh,” was the very eloquent reply Draco waited so patiently for, and he couldn’t help but snigger.

“Great. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and there was so much – Potter, what the hell happened? Who did this?”

“Dunno,” Potter shifted a little on the bed and gave him a sad pout. “Bastard attacked me from behind.”

“From behind – so you didn’t see them? Where did it happen?”

“Nah, saw nothing. I was going to – your flat – “ he stopped for a cough or two, and Draco presented him a glass of water from the bedside cabinet. After drinking his fill he continued; “was lucky I managed to get up the stairs. You – Draco, you saved my life.”

His cheeks must have flushed bright red, but Draco was a little too preoccupied to fixate on that. “So someone attacked you _outside the building_? Who? How did they get there?”

Potter shrugged, then winced in pain. “Ugh, bollocks. I’ve no idea. Must have been following me around.”

“You think?” Draco ached to smooth the wrinkle in his forehead, so he tucked his hands in his own lap.

“Yeah, probably. Someone from the – case – “ he gritted his teeth, and Draco felt sympathetic pain all over his body.

“Potter, come on. You have to go to St. Mungo’s. You need to get checked.”

“No, ‘m good,” Potter shook his head weakly, and Draco grunted his exasperation.

“You are very much not good! You’ve lost about twenty percent of your blood last night, and my healing capabilities are extremely limited. Granted, your elf knows a thing or two about it, but it’s not enough! Please just go and get looked at.”

“No,” Potter repeated. “No hospitals.”

“But why – “

“Just no,” he insisted, and the little color in his cheeks waned. “Draco, please.”

How could he stand against those beseeching green eyes? He was never strong enough. “All right, fine. You better get some more sleep, then. I’ll go ask Kreacher to make you something to eat. Last thing we need is for you to get food poisoning from my cooking…” the end of it he was muttering to himself as he already made his way downstairs. The elf was in the kitchen, busy making chicken soup (damned chicken, why was it always chicken) and some sort of dark-leafy, lentil dish that actually didn’t smell too bad.

“Master Harry will not throw up this,” Kreacher guaranteed Draco with a light smirk, and Draco believed that. He felt that stupid longing again, to be _Harry’s_ , like that stupid elf. To take care of him whenever the prat gets himself sick, which must happen pretty often. To know his house and where he keeps his potion kit. To cook him proper meals and change his dressings and sit with him and – well, simply, to belong to him. Draco ached to belong to anyone, but being Potter’s seemed all the more sweet. Shaking this awkward thought out of his head he returned to the sick upstairs, who’d fallen back asleep in those short minutes he was away. Draco sat on the rug and watched him, and realized to his horror he’s pretty content with even just that.

At some point during the night, after being fed and cleaned by his elf, Potter woke up. “Draco?” he asked in a weak tone, and Draco jumped to his feet, leaping in full panic mode to his side.

“What, what is it? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, just – what are you doing on the floor?” Potter’s voice was deep and low and his face was scrunched with sleep, but he looked much better than in the evening. In fact he looked adorable enough to give him a heart attack.

“Oh. I – wanted to make sure you’re okay – “

“No,” Potter shook his head, and he raised himself a little on the bed. “No, you shouldn’t – not on the floor.”

“But, Potter – “

“Kreacher?” the bastard ignored him completely. When the elf appeared with a bow, Potter asked him to go prepare the guestroom for Draco.

“Potter, please, I don’t need to – someone needs to stay with you, to monitor your condition. What if you need something during the night?”

“Then I have a very attentive house-elf,” Potter rolled his eyes, then braved a smile. “And my wand, too, actually. Draco, I’ll be fine. You should get a proper night's sleep, you look like crap.”

“Thanks,” Draco bit out, then there was silence. He cleared his throat. Potter seemed more lucid than he did all day, and this was just as good as opportunity as any. “Potter, I just wanted to – about Friday.”

“Oh, yes. That.” Potter drew a deep breath, apparently steeling himself.

“Yes, it’s… I’m so sorry. What I said was – so outrageous, so untrue, and I’m ashamed of having said it. I blamed you for things that are so entirely not your fault, and called you – I didn’t mean it, any of it. I know you’re not trying to control me, or any of the awful things I insinuated. You’re… you’ve… I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me, everything you – “

“Draco, stop,” Potter said softly and waved a hand. “We both said some things we didn’t mean, I think. I was stressed with the case, you were a little on edge… but you were right about most of it. I was acting like a – like a coward, like a child. And the things you said, about the power dynamics between us… you were absolutely right, I never even gave it a thought. You have nothing to be sorry for, all right? We’ll talk about it all when I’m a bit better. And the whole thing with your ex… I haven’t exactly changed my mind about him, but still – I was on my way to apologize when I was attacked.”

“You were?” Draco asked, stunned. Potter nodded.

“Yeah, the way I left, threatening I won’t be there to support you… that was such rubbish. I never should have even thought to say that. As long as you want me to, Draco, I’ll be there. I hope you know that.”

It only hurt so much worse, because now he said all of those terrible things to _this_ Potter, Potter who cared about him so much he had tears in his eyes – Draco had to stop himself from wailing. “Potter, I’m so sorry. For everything. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Potter extended his hand, but Draco didn’t feel brave enough to take it. He didn’t make a fuss, only softened his expression. “Draco, it’s all right. I’m sorry too. Let’s say it’s behind us?”

Draco nodded apprehensively. “If you can really – forgive me?”

“Of course I can. Of course I do. And you forgive me?”

Draco couldn’t possibly say anything more (forgiven, forgiven, he was _forgiven)_ , so he just nodded. The elf returned and announced in his creaky voice that the guest bedroom had been prepared, and if Master Draco will be so kind as to follow him. Draco frowned at being called _master_ , bade Potter good night, urged him to call if he needs anything, and left.

The bedroom was small and neat. It was only a few doors down the from Potter’s, with nothing but a bed and a wardrobe, but Draco felt off from the get-go. The wallpaper was a light cream, cheery and clean, and it was wrong. The floor was bare, no carpet, and it was wrong. There was an adjoined bathroom with a yellowing claw-foot tub, and it was wrong. And the most wrong of it all was sitting on the bed and pretending like he was going to sleep there.

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Sleeping on His bed was at least in the realms of familiar, since he had slept in the same room with it for three years. But this – there was nothing familiar about any of it, and it was _frightening_. In here, Draco was nothing but alone. Away from Potter. Away from Him. away from anyone who could demand, ask or say something to him. Away from anyone who could _help_. And it was so scary, so very scary, that Draco couldn’t even bring himself to lie horizontally on the bed after the elf closed the door.

At first he tried to talk himself into it, to console himself into sense. _It’s just a bedroom_ , he said over and over, but the shivering didn’t stop and the air didn’t feel any less menacing. _No one is going to hurt you here. You are in Potter’s house, and you are safe_. It didn’t help. The dark, dark atmosphere was very much not Potter, and Draco was scared. Something could happen and he wouldn’t even know, because he doesn’t know this house, doesn’t know how it works. He’s alone in here, alone and a stranger, severely out of place. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't make a sound, and his heart was too heavy to carry. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks as per tradition.

This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He’d already been able to sleep well enough in Potter’s bedroom – what the hell was the difference here? Although playing dumb didn’t really help, for he knew very well what’s different. Here was _alone_. Here was _unprotected_. Here was _uncared for_ and _forgotten_ and _abandoned_. It took so, so very little to activate his abandonment issues, and he _knew_ that, but it didn’t make it any easier to fight. “I know Potter is right there,” he said out loud when he was able to again, but it didn’t help. “I can be all right on my own,” he added, but that was just another lie. He needed. Anyone, preferably Potter. He needed something known and safe or he will never breathe freely again.

Around three in the morning it became quite evident there will be no sleep in this room, and Draco was left with very little choice. He could go out of this house and try to find his way back to the flat, a plan which was riddled with so many problems, it wasn’t even worth exploring. The other option was just staying awake all night again, and it seemed perfectly doable, since Draco was well accustomed to sleepless nights filled with anxiety. Or, maybe, there was another option. Maybe – but no. Draco was not a child, he will not go running to the next adult for reassurance, and he will not wake Potter up for nothing. Potter needed his rest. Potter needed to recover.

But it was too, too, too much. Fear chewed his heart and spat out a mangled lump, and Draco was drained. Every shadow was a threat. Every second was torture. It took until half four before he decided he can genuinely not take it any longer, and slithered his way back to Potter’s bedroom. He hoped the weary patient will not notice his entry, but of course he didn’t get his wish, and Potter stirred as the door opened. “Draco? Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

 _Damn_ , he cursed in his mind, then cleared his throat. “I – was hoping that – “ the words died on his lips and Potter scrambled to a sitting position, looking worried and still half-asleep.

“What? What is it?”

“I can’t…” Draco sighed and wrung his hands nervously. “on my own…”

“I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t want to… I couldn’t – “

“What?”

“I’m scared,” Draco admitted then in an angry hiss. “Alone in that room, I’m – I can’t sleep, Potter. I thought that maybe you’d, er, let me… sleep here.” He swallowed heavily and waited.

“Here? What, in my bed?” Potter asked, aghast. Draco shook his head no extremely fast.

“No, of course not – not in your _bed_. I wanted… last night, I was, erm, quite comfortable on the, er – if I could just – on the rug – “ his cheeks _burned_. This was without a doubt the most humiliating situation he’d been in since prison.

“Draco, I’m sorry, I don’t think my brain is working right yet. What is it you want?”

What Draco wanted was to cry, but instead he asked, “May I sleep on the rug next to your bed, Potter? Please?”

“You want to sleep… on the rug… next to my bed?”

“Please,” Draco whispered, bending his head down. “Potter, please let me.” He won’t be able to face the night on his own. Not after all the stress, and with being in this unfamiliar environment. Not after the previous three nights. He just won’t.

When the silence was too heavy, Draco brought his gaze up. Potter didn’t look sleepy anymore. He looked… soft, infinitely soft, and Draco was in physical pain with how much he needed. “Draco, I won’t let you sleep on a rug. You’re a person, not a dog.” His heart broke into so, so many tiny pieces, and it didn’t even hurt, because he never stood a chance.

“All right,” he uttered brokenly, readying himself to leave. He will not shatter in front of sickly Potter. He will at least have the decency to do it on his own.

“No, Draco, wait. I meant not on the rug as it is, but of course you can stay. Let me just – “ he grabbed his wand and started swishing it around, and Draco was too confused at first to understand what on earth was happening. So he’s not getting banished? He doesn’t need to leave? “I was never the best at Transfiguration, and right now let’s blame it on the injury too, yeah? My, that’s some shoddy work. But do you think it’s…. do you think it will do for tonight?”

Draco stared at the transformed mattress, lumpy and thick and covered in the most Gryffindor of reds that ever existed. The mattress which used to be a rug, on which Draco wanted to sleep. Potter made it into a bed. He made it into something worthy of a _person_. Choking on his own tears, Draco was only able to nod.

Potter smiled warmly. “Good. Now let me just – Accio duvet and pillow!” within a few seconds the items he called zoomed into the room and crashed in an untidy mess on the mattress. “Sorry, I was never very good with the placing – Hermione says it’s to do with the wrist, but…” he shrugged. “All right? is this okay? You think you’ll be able to sleep on that?”

Draco wanted to say yes. He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to offer his undying loyalty in return to this lovely, stupid gesture. He wanted to kiss Potter again right on his still-too-pale lips. He wanted to crawl under the bed and never be seen again. He wanted too much. Instead what he did was get on the mattress (which felt ever funnier than it looked, and Draco loved it enough to die from it) and cover himself with the duvet. Potter looked down at him, contended.

“Good night, Draco.”

“Good night, Potter.”

And he slept.


	18. The Things One Learns from Behind the Bathroom Door

Draco jolted awake with a disoriented sense of alarm. Something – something was wrong – and for a terrifying second he had no idea where he was, whom with, why the hell and what on earth was going on. Then it happened again; the booming voice carried into the room and Draco shivered on the uneven mat. In his high state of panic it was just noises, not even words. Draco’s bloodshot eyes tore everywhere looking for the source, until they landed on Potter’s pale face. “Shit,” was all he said.

“ _Harry Potter, if you don’t open the door this instant_ – “

“I didn’t think he’d apparate straight here,” Potter added in a distressed whisper.

“What? Who?” There were too many questions and not enough breath to spare. Draco stared up at him, horror-struck.

“ _I will not ask again – I am ordering you to open this door right now!_ ”

“I had no choice, Draco – I had to tell him, I couldn’t just not go to work Monday morning – “

“Tell who what?” Draco begged. Potter’s eyes were huge and apologetic and they looked around frantically.

 _“You have ten seconds before I’m blasting the goddamn thing down_ – “

“I’m so sorry, I thought he’d just send a Patronus back, I never thought he’d actually…“

“Is that – is – “ Draco’s poor attempts at constructing a coherent sentence were interrupted by more yelling from the ground floor. “Is that the _Head Auror?_ ”

The voice must have been magically amplified, it was so loud it hurt. “ _five – four_ – “

“One second! _”_ Potter shouted. “Kreacher?”

“Potter, what the hell?”

“In a minute!” Potter yelled at the door, confused and upset. “Draco, I’m sorry, I didn’t – “

“ _This is your final warning – “_

“I had to, I had to let him know…”

Draco swallowed heavily. “Potter?”

“ _Right this instant – “_

“Kreacher?”

“ _Potter!”_

“Master?”

“Potter – “

“Everybody calm down!” He looked quite mad. The knuckles of his hands grabbing the duvet were pearly-white. “Kreacher, you go get the door, and try to stall for as long as you can. Draco, you go to the bathroom and stay quiet. _Just a second!”_ he added in a shout.

“You’re – you’re bringing him here? The Head Auror?” Draco felt faint. He was barely even awake yet, and it was far too early for his world to fall apart. “Here?”

“Draco, come on, go, now!”

“ _Of all the unprofessional, improper hacks to ever disgrace the halls of my department_ – “

Draco’s mind was stuck on a painful loop. “Potter, you can’t – he’ll see me!”

“He won’t, please, just go – “

“But, Potter!” he didn’t believe he had to actually say it. “He’ll know! He’ll know someone’s helped you – he’ll find me!”

On the landing below them the door screeched open loudly and stiff footsteps marched in. Draco gave a little squeal. “He won’t know a thing, I promise. I downplayed the attack a lot, I didn’t tell him how bad it was, he’ll have nothing to suspect. Just go, all right?” the panic in his eyes made Draco move automatically, but he frankly felt quite numb.

“- _I never thought anyone under my command would have the audacity_ – “

“Potter!” Draco wheezed hysterically.

“Draco, move, now – “

“- _thinking he’s above the law because he’s Harry fricking Potter_ –“

“Bathroom!” Potter yelled, exasperated. The heavy footsteps ceased.

“What?”

“Er, sorry, just – one second, all right?” he turned two anxious eyes on him. “Draco, _please_?”

There wasn’t much he could do against that imploring voice, and Draco basically ran. Only when he reached the bathroom door did he think about it – “Potter, the mattress!”

“The what?”

“The mattress! Vanish it!” it took the sodding idiot too long to get to the bottom of his intention, and by the time the transfigured rug resumed its flat form, Draco only had about a second to shut the door behind him. By the sound of it, a giant had torn the bedroom door nearly off its hinges and stalked inside.

“- _two days_ , Potter? Two days before you inform your commanding officer you’ve been _attacked_?”

Draco sank against the bathroom door, hugging his knees. He could not stop shaking, and did his utmost to remain silent. Huh. So this is what doom felt like. Interesting; he’d always imagined it more… he didn’t know. Colder.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

Hearing Potter, _Master Harry_ , calling someone Sir was at the very least bewildering. “Not a big deal? Have you seen yourself? I’m already questioning your judgement as is, Potter. Don’t make it worse.”

“No, Sir. My house-elf was able to clear it up no bother, so I didn’t think there’s any cause for alarm.”

“No cause for alarm? _No cause for alarm_? One of my Aurors is attacked, but there’s no cause for alarm? For goodness’ sake, Potter, you’ve lost your bloody mind!”

Potter's voice sounded strained. “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I didn’t want to distract everyone from the… _main thing_ going on. With everything that’s happened last week – “

“All the more reason for you to tell me right away! Potter, this is simply unacceptable, and it is by no means an excuse for your behavior! Failing to notify your commander immediately upon an attack –playing with fire, running off Merlin-knows where on your own, investigating without telling anybody, taking no precautions – “

“It wasn’t part of the investigation, Sir. I wasn’t there on the case. I’ve no idea how they found me, to be honest.”

The heavy footsteps thundered across the room, their sound only slightly muffled by the carpet. “And you didn’t even _see_ who it was?”

“No, Sir. Like I told you, they attacked from behind. And they were gone as soon as they’d cast the spell, so there was no reason to send someone to look for them.”

“Yes, but Potter – scanning the scene? Gathering evidence? Doing our bloody _job_? Do you have any idea what you could have done, what could have happened?”

“I can take care of myself – “

“Apparently you can’t!” there was a loud noise, not unlike a growl, and Draco shivered even worse on the floor. “You bloody can’t! In light of the attack, and with all of the… commotion, I fear we’ll have no choice but to do as we discussed.”

“Sir, _no_ ,” Potter sounded horrified. “You can’t!”

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, _Auror Potter_ ,” the man scolded. “What other option is there? Death Eaters on the rise. Now you’ve been attacked. It sort of puts everything Slughorn’s said into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Draco wasn’t paying any sort of attention until now, because _panic panic panic_ , but the name of his previous Head of House did stir something in him. He was too agitated to really perk his ears, but he raised his head an inch.

“You can’t possibly buy into that, Sir. It’s nonsense – you’ve said so yourself!”

“Perhaps then, yes, but how can I deny it now? We must be reasonable, Potter. You’d do well to remember no one wanted to believe it was true last time, either.”

“But, Sir… it’s just so ridiculous. It doesn’t make any sense. And pinning a babysitter on me –“

“You know what doesn’t make sense, Potter? Waiting _two days_ before letting your commander know you’ve been attacked! And if that son of a bitch had got you, then what?”

“All right, I understand, but – “

“No, Potter, I don’t think you do. If anything this incident has made it perfectly clear that you _don’t_ understand. You act like an adult, but then you go off with your… disorganized shenanigans and childish attempts at heroics. It’s been a hell of a month, and I’m not going to end it by having you killed off because you can’t bloody trust anyone else to do their jobs right.”

“I don’t need a -”

“I’ll be the judge of what you need!” Even from behind the door, Draco winced at the tone. But the next sentence was much softer: “I know you don’t like it, Potter. I don’t much like it either. You’re one of the best men we have, I’ll admit it, and I’d hate to hinder you. But your safety is paramount, and if there’s even a shred of truth in those crazy stories – “

“Sir, please. I’ll bet you a hundred Galleons the attack didn’t have anything to do with _that_ , and everything to do with those Death Eater scumbags I’ve been chasing down all week. It was just a bad time, bad place sort of deal.”

“Even if it is the case...“

“We don’t even know what they want. We can’t be sure they’re targeting me.”

“We know enough! We know they’ve been acting against the Muggle Prime Minister and his Cabinet! We know that Death Eaters we haven’t seen since the first war are resurfacing! And now you’ve been attacked directly, leaving very little room for guessing their intentions – “

“Fine, we know some, but Sir – it’ll just slow me down, and I can’t work like that.”

“You sure have some nerve. If anyone else dared pull this kind of stunt on me – “

“I know, I know. I can’t really excuse what I did, but Sir – I have to be able to act like me in order to solve this. You know it same as I do.”

There was a sound that could not have been a regular-sized man’s sigh. “You’ll be the death of me, Potter.”

He chuckled, the bastard. “I really hope not, Sir.”

The Head Auror sounded far less jovial. “We’ll discuss it when you’re back. In the meantime, won’t you bloody go to the hospital already? This is an order, not a request.”

“I don’t need St. Mungo’s, Sir, I swear. Just a few more days’ rest, and I’ll be fine. If… if that’s okay.”

The footsteps returned to tap. “Godric forgive me… fine. Report daily with updates on your condition. If anything goes south – and I mean anything, Potter, I don’t care how minor – you let me know straightaway. Even if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming, by Merlin, I will. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir. I will. Thank you.”

“You bloody well – wait, what’s all this?” Draco must have died for a second, for his heart literally stopped beating. He could see the picture crystal-clear in his mind’s eye; a duvet and a pillow laying on the rug, forgotten.

“Oh, that? My, er, house-elf spent the night here.”

“You let your house-elf sleep in your _bedroom_?”

Potter didn’t miss a beat. “Why, don’t you?”

A snort, and Draco’s heart resumed normal activities. “You’re one weird egg, Potter. Daily reports, don’t forget. Oh, and, erm… don’t tell the others about this, all right? If anyone asks, you got a stiff telling-off, maybe even some violence. I don’t need anyone else lecturing me about how I let you off easy or some other crap.”

“I won’t, Sir. Thank you.” The heavy footsteps signaled the man leaving the room, but Draco could not pull himself out of the miserable cocoon he formed on the floor. He didn’t move until the bathroom door opened and Potter stood there. The way he leaned on it suggested he couldn’t quite remain upright on his own. “Are you all right? He’s gone. You can come out now.”

Draco looked up at him, miserable and tiny. Potter was still unnaturally pale and unsteady, his torso all bandaged. Now that he was up Draco could see his pajama bottoms were flannel and… fluffy? He squinted. For some reason he couldn’t quite explain to himself, it made him angry. “This was such a mistake.”

“What was? Saving my life?” Potter asked good-naturedly.

Draco didn’t even scoff. “I can’t be here, Potter. I can’t. It’s – “ he would have liked to focus, but Potter’s fluffy pajamas cost him a great deal of concentration, and made his fingers itch. It just looked so _soft_. Gods bloody damn it.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Hearing those words made his chest burn. It was already chock-a-block with tension and fear and need and it all would soon escape as sobs if he didn’t watch out. “Potter…”

“Hey, it’s going to be fine. Would you get up? Please?” 

Potter sent out a hand to help him up, but his other one was still leaning against the doorframe, and Draco shook his head no. The bloody cheek this man has, offering to help _Draco_ when he himself was in shambles. In an instant Draco knew what made him so angry, furious even; it was that Potter was _right_. Draco really did need him to be strong. He needed him to be strong so that he could fall apart, and right now he wasn’t. He was pale and weak and soft and it just wasn’t fair. Draco’s life just shot bang out of order, and he needed Potter there to put it back together again. But this Potter couldn’t help him. Trembling, wounded Potter was obviously incapable. How dare he be soft when Draco needed so badly for him to be firm? How dare he be weak when Draco needed his help? But he was, he was, and it drove him mad. Anger rose and fell in waves in his stomach, and Draco didn’t even know where it was directed anymore. He was angry with Potter. He was angry with himself. He was angry with the world. Potter was soft and Potter needed. He… he needed Draco.

It was all just too much. Draco couldn’t possibly help him. Even putting aside the fact he was a total mess, that he himself needed so bloody much, he would be of no help. Potter needed someone strong, someone brave, someone real, and Draco was none of that. He couldn’t help him even if he wanted to, which he did, he did so much. But how? It didn’t make any sense. Potter was big and good and Draco was nothing. He could never. The fact remained though that Potter needed, and there was simply no one else around. Only Draco. Only he could help this poor, weak Potter. This Potter who was soft enough to die for, and whom Draco couldn’t help but want to curl into forever. It was impossible – he was a mess – he had no choice. Potter needed him, and Draco would do whatever he fucking has to.

“Lean on me,” he said, and Potter’s eyes rounded even more. “Come on, you prat. You look a little peaky. Probably shouldn’t be out of bed yet.”

Somewhat hesitantly, Potter took the proffered arm, and together they limped towards the bed. It hurt a little, but that was to be expected. There was nothing else to be done. It wasn’t Potter’s fault there was no one there other than miserable, broken Draco to help him. He gritted his teeth; he will not draw back now. Draco’s hand brushed against the soft fabric of Potter’s pajamas and it broke his heart. _Potter needed him._

“My head does feel a little groggy,” he admitted quietly as he lowered onto the bed, and fucking hell, Draco would hurt himself _so bad_ for him. It was so unfair.

“Just lie down, all right? You need to rest. You’re not strong enough to be walking around like that. I really think you should be seen by a – “

“Draco, please, not now. You can reprimand me all you want later, all right? but there’s a… we need to talk about some things first.”

A little knot of dread twisted in his gut, and Draco took a seat at the very edge of the bed, as far as possible from soft, tempting, painful Potter. The man seemed as anxious as he, if not more; he kept twiddling his thumbs and covered himself with the duvet up to his chin. “Well?” Draco asked in the end, when nerves got the better of his patience.

“Right. Er. Draco, do you... do you think we could maybe let some other people know you’re alive?”

He could only gape for the longest moment. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it, right? and – well, we’re going to need some help. I know you want to go back home, but considering how we left the place, I just don’t know if it’s safe. There are probably people from the Ministry looking into it, and now Aurors too, and there’s not much I can do from this bed to help. So I thought maybe I could ask Ron – “

“No,” Draco breathed urgently. “Potter, please.”

He sounded pained as he continued. “I know you’re scared, all right? I get it. But it’s not even just the Ministry I’m worried about. What if the person who attacked me is still hanging about, waiting for another shot? They might have seen us together. I doubt they’d hesitate to hurt you too, trying to get to me, and I just can’t put you at risk. Please, Draco.”

It was like dangling a bag of heroin in front of an addict; Draco reveled in being _looked after_ and _thought of_ for one glorious, warm, dazzling second. Then he crashed right back to the unforgiving ground. Fear was always so much stronger. “Potter, please don’t tell him.” 

He looked outright miserable. “Draco, I... we need someone to look into it for us, and I can’t think of anyone else I trust.”

“Please,” Draco begged his knees, since he couldn’t possibly look at that sad face. “Please.” His voice was barely even a whisper.

Potter sighed bitterly. “Okay, if you don’t want me to, I won’t. But I’ll have to tell him _something_ , or we’ll have no idea what’s going on and whether it’s safe for you to return or not. How about if I tell him a little bit more, but not mention your name?”

 _No, no, no…_ Draco’s head was sore with how much he didn’t like it. “Is there really no other way?”

“None that I can think of, no. I’m sorry. But he won’t know it’s you.”

There wasn’t much consolation in trying to believe that, but Potter sounded so sad, and Draco had already agreed to hurt himself. “All right, then. If you think it’s best.”

“Thank you, Draco. For trusting me. I know it’s… I wouldn’t do anything you don’t want to.”

The tension in Potter’s voice suggested he meant it the way Draco took it to be – referring to their awful, awful row on Friday – and the knot in his stomach tightened. Merlin, no chance he could face _that_ conversation right now. “Potter, please. You’re… you’re still unwell. You said we’ll talk about it when you’re better.”

He stole a glance; Potter looked relieved. “Yeah, okay, when I’m better.” Draco released his breath and his shoulders loosened, which made Potter chuckle. He settled into his bed and sighed. “That was an intense way to wake up, though, wasn’t it?”

“It was terrible. I’d appreciate a little heads-up in the future.” Draco tried to keep his voice light, because Potter needed him now, and he didn’t want to let him know just how close to breaking him it came.

“I’m sorry. Will do. Good thing Sirius’s mother is out of earshot nowadays – you can’t imagine the scene she’d have caused. Would have been the death of us both, I’m sure of it.”

“Sirius’s” – Draco tilted his head. “Wait, Great-Aunt Walburga? You have her portrait here?”

“God, it was such a nightmare trying to remove it. It took three expert curse-breakers, Ron, Charlie, Bill and Hermione’s help, and we still had to keep it in the house, or the rain wouldn’t stop.”

“The… rain?”

“Yeah, she had it rigged so if anyone tried to remove the painting, all hell broke loose. First it rained blood – seriously creepy, can’t tell you how glad I was Hermione found that counter-curse to change it to water. Then there were frogs… felt very biblical, that. Then, of course, all those cactuses that caught fire – or is it cacti? And the poisonous mold that spread in all the bathrooms simultaneously… in the end we caved in and stuffed the damned thing in one of the empty rooms upstairs, but I don’t think she’s very happy with it. Sometimes I still hear the odd croak.”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh; Potter was very clearly trying to cheer him up, and he used a lot of hand gestures and quirked his eyebrows dramatically. He was such a prick, and Draco was grateful.

“Will Master Harry want his breakfast served here?” a tiny voice asked and Draco jumped to his feet. He completely forgot there was someone still in the house with them. Potter seemed to have forgotten too.

“Oh, er, yes. Sorry, Kreacher. I’m not used to you staying around for long – you can go back to Hogwarts if you want. I’m fine.”

“Master Harry says he is fine, but Master is wrong. Either Master is more foolish than he looks, or he lies. Kreacher wonders which one is it?”

Draco’s jaw fell open. Such blatant disrespect – it was absolutely insane. From Potter’s own _house-elf_! He closed his eyes; true that this insolent creature needed to be put in his place, but Draco really didn’t wish to see that. His heart lurched in sympathetic fear.

But instead of punishment, Potter laughed. _Laughed._ Draco’s eyes opened a slit, and he stared in amazement. “Kreacher, you’re just as sharp as ever, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Sure, why don’t you bring breakfast here? Draco, do you prefer to eat in the kitchen, or…?”

“With you,” he said before he could really think of it. Then he cleared his throat and lowered his gaze to the floor, a little embarrassed. “I, er, want to eat with you. Here is fine.”

Potter, who didn’t punish his servant _even when he called him a liar to his face_ , grinned. “Excellent. We trust you, Kreacher. No weird fishy stuff, okay? Just a normal English breakfast. Oh, and erm, no beans please.”

Draco was absolutely floored that Potter remembered, and his gratitude was beginning to weigh on his chest. “You don’t need to… you can have whatever you want.” But the little elf was already gone with another bow, and Potter waved a hand.

“Nah, it’s fine. To be honest I’m not very hungry anyway, I just thought I’d humor him. Also, I was a little scared you’d hit me if I said I didn’t want to eat.”

Draco scoffed at that. “You were absolutely right.” (As if. _As if_.) he bit his lip and looked at the slight sheen on Potter’s face. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he replied, too fast and too effortlessly. Draco grimaced. “No, really, I’m fine. I’ve been in this spot once or twice before, believe me. And I didn’t have a genius like you by my side those times. still I made it through, right?”

Draco shook his head. “I’d just feel so much better if…”

“Really, there’s no need. See, I’m already sitting up and everything. And you can hear from my chat that I’m just as clever as always. Oi, knock that smirk off your face, I’m bright. Beat your arse in school if I remember correctly.”

“Now you really have me worried,” Draco tutted and gave him a pitying look. “I’m afraid you’re hallucinating. How many fingers am I holding up?”

For a second it looked like Potter was about to grab his hand, and Draco held his breath. He had no idea how he’d react if he did. A part of him longed for it – another part of him shuddered at the very thought – but Potter never actually went for it, just crossed his hands on his stomach and rolled his eyes. “Is it fifteen? I don’t know. Stop moving so I can count properly.” Draco relaxed, let out a brief laugh and sat back down. Potter was _such_ a prick, and he was _so_ grateful.

Breakfast was served on the bed, and it was uncomfortable and messy and Draco would not have traded it for the world. For one wounded and pretty weak and one – well, being _Draco_ – it was almost normal. Potter struggled a little to eat , Draco could sense, but he did his best not to let it show, and to keep the atmosphere pleasant. He made excessive jokes about every and any subject he could think of (Draco was fairly surprised to learn the man knew so many jokes about _cows_ , for Merlin’s sake) and spilled juice all over his bed in his excited chatter about nothing in particular.

Draco may have needed the complete opposite, but there was something about Potter’s softness that made his knees weak with want. He wanted it so, so bad. From his fluffy pajama bottoms, to his unruly hair, to his glimmering green eyes, to the humorless jokes he made, Potter’s entire essence was soft this morning. So soft and warm and _brilliant_. He never knew he could want anything like it, but he did. Merlin, did he want it. There was nothing to it, though; he couldn’t have it, and that had to be it, because.

It was exhausting, trying to figure out what he even wanted, and then denying himself it at every turn, but such was life. Whatever it was he wanted from Potter – for him to be strong, to be soft, to be close, all of it – the main thing he wanted was for Potter to be _all right_. The way he was responding to the treatment, or rather not responding, was deeply concerning. He really wasn't _fine_. After breakfast and all his animated talk Potter seemed pretty drained, and Draco suggested he should rest. He sat on a chair Kreacher brought and pretended to read a book, while actually watching him closely. If he was all Potter had, then he had to be alert. For now though he let him sleep and sufficed in watching over him like a hawk, looking for the slightest sign of distress.

Potter had only been asleep for about two hours before the sound of something crashing through the Floo network worked its way up and Weasley’s voice called out. “Harry? You up there?”

Draco didn’t need to be told – the look in those damn eyes was enough, and he did have some practice by now. He managed to settle semi-comfortably behind the bathroom door by the time Potter’s best friend made it to his bedroom.

He announced himself very cleverly: “Fuck me over with a banana, mate, you look terrible.”

“Cheers.” Draco couldn’t see it, but he was sure Potter just rolled his eyes. “And how are you?”

“Me? I’m fine, just fine. _I’m_ not the one who’s going to die tonight.”

“I’m not going to die, Ron, it’s not that bad – “

“I didn’t mean from the attack, I know Kreacher’s got mad skills. I meant that Hermione’s going to kick your teeth in once she gets back home. I just firecalled her, and she was seething. How come you didn’t tell us anything, you git?”

Draco held back a chuckle. He was still extremely nervous about the whole situation, which was probably why he found it so funny, the image of a battle-ready Granger. The way he was shaking against the door made a constant, low tapping sound that he desperately tried to prevent.

“Sorry, I know. I didn’t mean to – “

“No, seriously though. I had to hear about it from _Smith,_ of all people. Smith! And if you’d seen his cocky smirk when he realized he knew something about you that I didn’t – Merlin, I hate that prat. Came to me all gloating that you nearly died. Promise you’d never let me go through that again, Harry. It was bloody wretched.”

Potter laughed. “I promise to never let Zacharias Smith know something about me before you do. Sorry, Ron.”

“Bet your arse you’re sorry. Next time if the bastards don’t get you, I might just do it myself. So – what the hell happened?”

“Well, you said you’d already heard.”

A sharp scoff nearly made Draco lose his balance. “Yeah, I heard what you told them. I meant to ask what’s _really_ happened?”

“How did you know that – “

“Harry, please, I think I know you well enough. And besides, it’s not like you left Saturday night dinner early to go get an _Indian_ from some nowhere place in north London. So, spill. What really happened and why did you bullshit the captain?”

“It’s actually, er… well, it’s a bit of a long story. Sit down?”

There was some movement that must have been a chair scraping over a carpet. Draco thought with hysterical sort of gratitude of how he remembered to get rid of the duvet and pillow this time around. “What is it, then? Am I finally going to hear why you were in such a foul mood all Saturday?”

“I wasn’t in a foul mood,” Potter protested, and there was another scoff.

“Right, sorry, not foul mood then. You were absolutely gutted. If I didn’t know you any better I’d have said you went off in a huff because you were going to _cry_.”

“I was not going to – will you just shut up and listen?” Draco’s heart, the bewildered imbecile, started beating much faster. “In part, yes, the reason I was a little… _ruffled_ that night was related to what’s happened. It’s, er. To do with… well.”

There was a loud gasp (Draco absolutely hated how vocal Weasley was. Every time he reacted it was like having a mini heart-attack. Can’t the twit just keep it to himself?). “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Him who?”

“Him, your mystery guy. The one who’s got you so smitten. You had a tiff with him, didn’t you, before you came to dinner? And then you went to see him afterwards?”

“I’m not _smitten_ , Christ, Ron.” Draco’s heartbeat doubled its speed.

“Oh, you so are. You’re over the moon for this guy. Hermione and I were just saying how we’ve never seen you like that with anyone – well, at least until you came over all mopey. You’re really into him, aren’t you? I think you lo-“

“Merlin’s balls, Ron, shut up! I’m not in – I wouldn’t say that – for fuck’s sake, do you even want to hear what I have to say, or do you just want to sit there and take the piss all day long?”

“Afraid I don’t have all day, though I do enjoy a good piss-take. Mate, we couldn’t be more chuffed for you – whoever this man of yours is, he’s clearly making you happy.” Draco’s heartbeat now tripled. This was getting dangerous. “Well, was making you happy. You didn’t look so happy Saturday.”

“I… fuck, fine, whatever. You’re right, we had a row. And I was going over there to apologize, that’s why I left early. Then… Ron, it happened right outside his building. This person came out of nowhere and hit me from behind. Never got a look at their face – I'd just glimpsed a hooded figure from the corner of my eye – but don’t you think it’s a little odd?”

“Merlin, a little doesn’t come near it. How did they know where to find you? Did you apparate there straight from ours?”

“Exactly. That’s what I keep thinking – how did they know? I wonder if they might have put some trace or something on me, I dunno. Or… I have been going there quite often recently. I’m worried someone might have noticed.”

“Right, well, why didn’t you tell Cap all of it? We could stake out the place. Make sure that if anyone’s there that isn’t supposed to be – “

“Yeah, that’s actually a part of what I wanted to ask you. I can’t tell Cap because – erm, well, it’s because of the man who… _him_. He doesn’t want to… I can’t have him involved in the investigation.”

“What do you mean? Why not? Is he a Muggle?”

“It’s… complicated.” Draco buried his face in his hands and tried his best not to scream. Stupid, stupid Potter – what, does he think that Weasley will just let him off the hook with that? That he isn’t going to ask a million and one questions about it, until he weasels out of Potter exactly who he’s talking about?

“Huh? Complicated how?”

“Just is, Ron. All the – you know what you said earlier, about how I… he means a lot to me. I – I really care about him. So I’m asking you, as a favor, to help me here. I promise I’d let you know everything in the end. Just – I can’t right now. You have to trust me.”

Draco rolled even more into himself. This time he didn’t even notice how Potter said he cared about him. All he could concentrate on was doom (much colder now, thank you, it did feel a little good to be right). Weasley is never going to be satisfied with that, and he’s not going to help them, and he’s going to know. Then Draco’s life will end, because no way these bastards won’t want to put him back behind bars, and…

“Okay.”

Perhaps it was actually a good thing, since it was going painfully fast before, but now Draco’s heart slowed to a near stop. What?

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. I trust you, Harry. What, does it really come as a surprise?”

“No, of course not, just…”

Draco could not follow the conversation after that, due to being shocked within nearly an inch of his life. Potter must have asked Weasley to sneak around the flat and assess the situation like he said he would, but Draco heard none of it. He simply could not comprehend what just happened. Naturally, he knew Weasley was a good friend of Potter’s, had been since they were children. But this level of blind trust? This level of just – following him? Draco didn’t even dream it would be possible, for two people to be so close that they’d just… believe in each other like that. Draco could never hope to achieve that in this lifetime. Sure, he followed – avidly, blindly, yes, all that – but it never came from a place of _trust_. It came from obligation, from fear, from a desire to please, but…

There was too much to be in awe about, and Draco didn’t even notice when Weasley left. “Hey, is everything okay? Do you need me to come in there?” he registered Potter’s voice with some difficulty, and shook himself into the present. A little timidly he opened the bathroom door and glanced outside.

“Is he gone?”

“Yeah, sorry, I thought you heard me. Are you alright?”

“I’m…” only bewildered out of his mind, he supposed. “Yes, I’m fine. Did he agree? Is he going to see that the flat is safe?”

“He did, yeah.” Potter looked worse than he did before, color-wise, but there was obvious relief on his face. “Said he’s going to write as soon as he finds out. It’s the best thing, really, I think. I just can’t let you go back there before we know for sure, and this way we won’t have to have the Captain involved. It’s bad enough that he’s going to be looking into the area, you know… I wouldn’t want him to focus too much on anything to do with you.”

His heart already broke so many times today, and Draco was just exhausted. He couldn’t handle this, Potter taking care of him. It was so comforting and warm and beautiful and he needed it so much. But there was the other side of the coin, Potter being soft, Potter needing him, and now he had to focus on that. Draco sat down on the chair Weasley vacated and looked him dead in the eye.

“You need to get checked.”

“Jesus, not you too. Ron just gave me a ten-minute lecture about it. I’m fine, Draco, really.”

“You’re not fine.” He took in Potter’s pale features, the sweat on his upper lip, the dilated pupils. If he concentrated hard enough, he could see the pulse beating in his throat. “Potter, you’re really not fine. I’m not an idiot, you know.” Stupid, yes, but not an idiot. “You should be doing much better by now, and you’re not. I can’t… Potter, I’m worried about you. Please just go see a healer. Please.”

“But I can’t leave you here alone. What if someone comes? What if something happens?“

“No, Potter. Not poor Draco, not now. Gods, don’t make it more difficult than it has to be, all right? I’m not above begging you, but I really wouldn’t like to have to.”

“Draco...“

“Please. Do it for me. You told Weasley you cared about me.”

The spots of red on the otherwise white cheeks were sickly looking, but still so sweet. “I told you that too. I told you first.”

“So you did.” Draco kept his voice as gentle as it would go. “Prove it. Be vulnerable for me now. Go get your own fucking life saved for once.”

"Draco, I -"

"Potter, please. For me. Please."

“Okay,” he whispered, and Draco would have kissed him were he nearer. “Okay. Once Ron’s owl gets here and we know what’s going on, I’ll go. I promise.”

There wasn’t much to say after that, even if Draco’s throat wasn’t completely blocked, and so they just sat in a rather uncomfortable silence. Therefore when Potter suggested Draco went for a shower, he jumped on the opportunity. He’d not had a proper wash since he arrived Saturday night, just the odd scrub down a sink. Potter’s shower was old and rusty, but it had scalding hot water, and it was exactly what Draco needed. He spent a long while under the stream – possibly too long, he didn’t know if the hot water was provided magically or not – and came out red-skinned and most likely sporting some burns. Potter loaned him a few garments to wear – the trousers were too short so his ankles showed, and the shirt sleeves ended a little before his wrists, but they all smelled like _Potter_. Especially the jumper, the Aran one that Draco so loved seeing on him. Draco stood there, sniffing and admiring for a few minutes, before he went back out to the room.

And gasped in surprise – not only that the rug was transfigured back into a mattress, but it looked completely different. It was quite evident Potter had spent all this time working on it; he looked exhausted, but the result was very pleasing. It was pretty even now, thick and comfortable looking, and the bedsheet covering it was a Slytherin green. “Ta da,” he said happily, eyes shining with joy. “What do you think?”

“I – Potter – “ speechless, he was absolutely speechless. “But why?”

“I just wanted to let you know you’re welcome to stay here,” Potter answered shyly. “I know you want to go home, and this is far from ideal, but… as long as you need, you’ve got a place here. And you can stay in here with me if you wanted. Of course you can go back to the guestroom, but if you’d rather, you can… I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?”

Draco hurried to wipe the tears with his (Potter’s) sleeve. “No, no. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”

“What is it?” Potter asked in that condemnable soft tone of his.

“It’s nothing.”

“Draco…”

“Nothing, it’s just that… I’m so pathetic,” Draco whispered, unable to look at him. “I’m such a miserable pile of…. that you felt you had to do this for me.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” Potter sounded alarmed. “Draco, that’s not true.”

“I can’t even… on my own…” the sobs were hard to contain now, and he knew he’s worrying Potter, but there was nothing to do about it. “I’m so sorry…”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Draco, come here? Please?”

He did; not like he could refuse, especially in this state. Potter tapped the space next to him and Draco sat, sobbing quietly, hating himself. He can’t afford to do this, not now, but he also couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry. I should be helping you now, not the other way around.”

“Hush, it’s all right. We help each other, right? We can both help each other.” Potter’s hand lay on the bed between them, asking, and Draco placed his right next to it, almost touching. He wanted to believe they can do that. “You saved my life, so I get to try and help now, right? it’s only fair.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh. “You can’t, Potter. I’m broken this way. You won’t understand.”

“No, maybe I won’t, but…” he sighed. “I’d like to try.”

“How could you? How could perfect Potter ever understand?” Draco was horrified that his voice came out all angry, but Potter didn’t even react to it.

“I’m far from perfect, Draco. My life hasn’t been that easy either.”

“No, I’m not saying it was,” now he was really ashamed of himself. “It’s just so different. You’re Harry Potter. You don’t… you don’t know what it means to be alone.”

“That's not true. You know, I was pretty lonely as a boy.”

He did look at him now. Even the sobs stopped with surprise. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Don’t know how much you heard about my life before I started Hogwarts?” Draco shook his head because no, he didn’t hear much. He could imagine, though; lines of adoring fans catering to his every wish. Showered with love and admiration daily. “Well, it wasn’t that great.”

Draco’s eyebrow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Potter’s expression was still very soft when he continued, and it hurt. “My family – the people who raised me – they didn’t care for me. Like, at all. I think my aunt’s always been jealous of my mother, and then her husband was just a… anyway. It was really lonely. I didn’t have any friends, and… well, I had nobody. Really, nobody. No one who cared if I lived or died.”

“What are you talking about? All the wizards and witches in Britain – “

“Yes, well, I didn’t know they existed, did I? I never even knew I was a wizard until my eleventh birthday. Up until then I was… all alone. I couldn’t remember anything about my parents, but it didn’t mean I didn’t have nightmares. Green light, screams… I just didn’t know what it meant. Used to wake up crying in my cupboard and there was no one there to talk to. No one to… no one.”

"Your cupboard?" Draco asked weakly. Potter smiled humorlessly.

"Yep. Up until I was eleven my bedroom used to be the cupboard under the stairs. It's probably a wonder I'm not claustrophobic. Or Closet-phobic, actually, too."

Draco didn't laugh. He would have thought he was lying if it wasn’t Potter, and if he didn’t look at him like he did right now, like he was only barely keeping the tears in. Draco wanted to cry too, but he tried to hold back. Thinking of Potter, little, frightened, alone – and yes, he’d agreed to hurt himself, but this much?

“It sounds awful,” he said in the end, because he had to say _something_. Potter nodded.

“It was bad. I spent ages stuck in there, can’t even tell you how long. I think I repressed a lot of it, to be honest. But I remember – some things. Like how when the living room light was on I used to read, because there was a sliver of light that snuck in from underneath the door. They didn’t know, the Dursleys, but when they were awake, I could be also. And since my cousin took all the games, and cared none for the books – I could hide a couple of them at a time in the cupboard. No one would go in there, anyway. So I read.”

Draco never really pictured Potter as a bookworm, and it was such an endearing thought, he moved his hand an inch until their fingers interlocked. “You’d read?”

“Yeah, loads. Dudley had way too many books, some of them were downright stupid, but some were good. So I’d read and read and other than those books, I really didn’t have much. It sounds a little sad but in a way, the books were my friends.”

Draco turned his head away so Potter wouldn’t see the tears. “Your friends?”

“Yes, my friends. The only ones I could turn to. And so do you know what I did when I had a nightmare and couldn’t go back to sleep?”

Draco shook his head. Potter’s fingers in his were warm and a little clammy. He wanted to kiss them. “What did you do?”

“When I was scared, and I couldn’t sleep, I used to picture the characters from the books I was reading were there with me. It was a very small cupboard, and there wasn’t a lot of room, but they’d patrol around and take whatever positions they could. I used to imagine how they spoke to each other, you know, telling each other little stories from their world. This one time I had Matilda’s whole class fit in the cupboard somehow – you know the book? – and they were talking Miss Honey’s ear off about homework. And they would keep watch, so I didn’t need to be afraid anymore. I knew I was safe. I had them with me.”

Draco choked on a huge sob. His chest ached with it all. “Potter…”

“You see, really, I was alone. But in my head, I never had to be. I had the characters from my favorite books with me, and I could always call them, and they'd come. I could count on them. And I just… I would like it for you so bad, Draco. To have something, someone to turn to, so you won’t have to be alone. I don’t know if you’re much of a reader, but… do you think you could do that? I know you have a good imagination, I remember all those stories you used to make up about me in school.” Draco flushed, but Potter’s voice wasn’t hard, wasn’t accusing. He squeezed Draco’s fingers affectionately. “It doesn’t have to be characters from a book, either. It can be anyone, real or not, but someone you can imagine well enough. Someone that you can trust. Look, it’s just my stupid way of thinking, right? I have no idea if it’s something anyone else could use, no idea if it could help you. I can’t even tell you exactly how it helped me. But… it did, so I thought maybe you should know that. If you ever did want to use it. You don’t need to, of course. I know it’s stupid. God, it sounds so stupid. It’s… I don’t even understand it. Whatever.”

Draco understood. He understood exactly what Potter did here. Draco asked him to be vulnerable, and he was. He opened up to him and shared this – something private, something real. Something that by the way he sounded, he never told anyone before. _Because he wanted to help him_. No – because he trusted him. Overwhelmed by gratitude, Draco laid his head on Potter’s shoulder, and squeezed his hand until it hurt. He hoped Potter knew what he meant by that. He thought maybe he did, since he gently placed his head on top of Draco’s, and his breathing calmed down significantly. It was unbelievably serene between them now, tranquil. There was understanding between them. There was trust and there was a secret laid bare. Draco thought he could never be happier than he was just then, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how scared he was. They just sat there, close, open, until evening came in the shape of Weasley’s letter.

Potter read it quickly, then handed it to Draco, his other hand still holding his. According to Weasley’s inspection, the Ministry was looking into the bloody scene left in His corridor and the flying flowers incident, but they had no leads on a suspect. There was no sign of any unusual activity on the streets surrounding the building, but he promised to keep an eye, and said he’d placed some detection spells. Potter said this was as good as they could hope for. He suggested that for the time being and if he was okay with it, Draco should probably stay in Grimmauld Place, at least until they know it’s all clear. Draco agreed, providing that Potter went to the bloody hospital already, which he then did.

Draco waited for him on his green-covered mat pretty much holding his breath. He should be back in a few hours, he said. Draco prayed he really will. To pass the time he tried to think of all the books he ever read in his life, and to see if he remembers any of the characters. He never thought his imagination was something he could use to his advantage; what it normally brought was pretty much exclusively terror. Thinking about books from his childhood – and a tiny little Potter in his bed, surrounded by a class of six years old – calmed him down enough, and after some time he even forgot to count the minutes. He couldn’t wait for Potter to return so he could tell him that.


	19. Modern Solutions

“Draco, come on, enough already. I’ve told you over a hundred times.” He must have noticed his reaction, or perhaps just realized how harsh he sounded, since Potter hurried to retract his words. “I mean… look, I know you’re worried, but that’s all they could do for now. Until they get the results back there’s just nothing else, and that could take weeks still. Since they can’t track down the symptoms to any curse they know… and in any case, I told you what they’d said. The thorn apple you used totally saved my life. And I’m not in any immediate danger here, so it’s all fine.”

“Yes, but Potter,” Draco carried on, a little hesitant. Having already had this conversation several times didn’t make it so much easier to push someone as strong-willed as Potter. Still, some things had to be said, so Draco had to bloody _get it together_ and plunge forward. “Does it mean you have to go back to work right away? Can you not take just a little longer, until you’re actually better?”

Potter sat up straighter on the bed and frowned. “I am better, loads better.”

“No, you really aren’t. I know you’re desperate to go back –“

“Desperate is the wrong word for it. I’m just… anxious. You know I can’t sit still on my arse for such a long time. And it’s already been a week, Draco. A full week. If I don’t go back soon – “

Draco rolled his eyes. “Then what? The world will burn to ashes? Evil will triumph? Hell will be unleashed?”

“-No, but I just might go crazy.”

He simply couldn’t help his smile. The way Potter said these things, halfway between a petulant child and a long-suffering adult... Draco had to physically fight his hands from reaching out to him. He was sitting by the bed in what became his usual spot, close enough to touch. “You won’t go crazy, Potter. I’m here, aren’t I? and I promise I’ll keep you sane. Just a few more days… for my sake.”

“You don’t play fair,” Potter grunted weakly. Draco shook his head.

“Never did, don’t plan on starting to now. Just a few days, until you can actually stand without supports, and I won’t ask for anything more. Please.”

“I really do hate you sometimes, you know that?” Potter pouted. Then he sighed, the most miserable sound in the world. He knew just as well as Draco that however badly he wanted to return, he just wasn’t ready. “Fine. Fine. A few more days, and that’s it. Hand me that parchment, I’ll write to my commander. Oh, stop giving me that dirty look, I said I’ll do it!”

His forehead creased as he wrote, but the seriousness of his expression was somewhat thwarted by the way he absently blew air into his cheeks every so often. Draco had no choice but to turn his grinning face to his knees; Potter’s inherent sweetness became a rather constant ache in his chest. Stupid masochist that he was, Draco found himself craving for more, but even he could only take small doses of it at a time.

His knees, clad in Potter’s jeans, made him think of something he did his best to avoid until now. When Potter put down the quill he dared a look up and wondered how best to ask. “Potter, actually… I’ve got another request.”

“See, I knew that whole ‘I won’t ask for more’ thing was a ruse. What is it now? You want me to quit my dangerous job to become a carrot farmer?”

“Precisely,” Draco didn’t bat an eye. “No, it’s something completely unrelated. Do you think it’d be all right if I went back to the flat for a few hours?”

“What?” Potter asked, a touch sternly. Draco’s voice wavered a little as he continued.

“Just, that, er… If you could ask Weasley to stop monitoring it, just for a little while? I could take a portkey, or even a Muggle bus.” He tried to pretend like the very idea didn’t frighten him.

“But why?” Potter’s eyebrows basically merged into one crooked line.

“Oh, you know, your clothes are good and all, but not exactly my size. I can’t keep sponging off you for much longer. I could – probably should – take a few things from the flat, from the shop. Besides, I need to check if… I’ve not been there all this time. I need to make sure everything’s all right.” Not that he really thought He’d send an owl, but still. A full week away from where he _knew_ he should be was getting him extremely nervous.

“No,” Potter said, in a tone that implied that was that.

“No?” Draco repeated, taken aback by the abruptness.

“No. Draco, you can’t. It’s far too dangerous. It’s only been a week!”

He bit his lip and worked to keep the sullenness in his voice to the minimum. “So for you it’s been a week _already_ , but for me it’s _only_ been a week? I know the concept of time is relative, but...”

“Draco, come on. It’s not the same thing and you know it. I’m only trying to keep you safe.”

“I get that,” he said quickly to placate the angry shade in Potter’s tone. “And I appreciate it. But, Potter – “

“No, I’m sorry, but no way. You’re not going.”

Draco tried not to huff, he really did. “I thought you said you didn’t want to use your power over me anymore.”

“I don’t,” Potter bit out. “And I’m not _doing_ anything.”

“Right. I see.”

“Draco – “

“No, I get it. Whatever you say.” He had to be careful now, because he didn’t really trust himself to act appropriately anymore. He was spread pretty thin this past week – these past months – and his self-control was waning.

“Don’t say it like that. It’s not got to be _whatever I say_. I just wanted to… you know I only want what’s best for you.”

“Of course you do. And naturally _you_ get to decide what that is.” Shit, he really needed to get himself in check, for this was verging on dangerous. Being defiant has not been an option in so long, and it definitely wasn’t one now.

“So you disagree? You think it’s perfectly safe, that it won’t be reckless to go there before we know the situation better?”

“I didn’t – does it even matter, Potter? You don’t want me to go, so I’m not going. Isn’t that what you want me to say?” confusion didn’t count as defiance, right? he was still toeing the line, not past it, right?

Potter groaned in frustration. “Jesus, Draco. Why does everything always have to be so difficult with you?”

“I’m sorry,” he responded, the sting of the words loosening his tongue even further. “I’m not trying to be difficult. But when you’re just commanding me like that – “

“It wasn’t a command, I was just saying. I’m not your fucking ex-boyfriend, you don’t owe it to me to do as I bloody say.” Potter’s face was flushed and upset and Draco could not stand to look at it right now, because he could recognize the hurt in it too, and it just wasn’t fair.

“I know you’re not Him. I never said you were.”

“No, but you’re looking at me like I…” he let his sentence hang unfinished between them, and Draco shuddered with how hard he tried to keep his mouth shut. It didn’t work.

“I’m not looking at you like anything. I’m not looking at you, period. You want to boss me around and pretend like you’re not doing anything, that’s fine by me.”

“I’m not pretending – “

“Potter, please. You can’t say it wasn’t an order, since you obviously expect me to obey. Which I will, don’t you worry. If you want to keep me here, I’ll stay. I just thought that… never mind. It’s not like I really believed things would change.”

The last part was practically a whisper, and he had no idea if Potter even heard, but the immediate softening of his tone suggested he did. “Draco, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to command you or anything. I’m just not used to being… subtle with my opinions, and you know I’m a little tense with the whole situation. Of course I don’t mean to imprison you here.” He took a strained break before sighing deeply. “If you want to go – fine, I’ll make it happen. But I’m coming with you.”

Draco’s head shot up. “What?”

“Yeah, I think that’s the best solution. I’d ask Ron to give it a break, and I can apparate you there. Saves time, plus I’d be much calmer if I’m taking you. We still don’t know what can be lurking in the shadows there, you know.”

Draco didn’t feel at all comforted. “You can hardly walk ten steps on your own, Potter. Worse than that, using your magic exhausts you. You can’t _take_ me anywhere. You’re just – now you’re just playing me, and that’s not right. Either have the balls to face what you’re doing, or let me do it my way. There’s no need for cheap tricks like that.”

Potter rubbed his eyes. Draco was pretty upset with himself for losing what little control he had, so It took him a second to realize he was smiling. “What the hell, Potter?”

“It’s just that – “ he shook his head, but the grin didn’t exactly disappear. “I’m sorry, I know it’s awful, this whole thing, but I can’t help but be a little glad whenever you’re mad at me.”

“What? Why?” This statement was peculiar enough to give Draco pause. His eyebrow quirked in bewilderment.

“Just how you said you’d never have the courage to stand up to me. And, well, you do. I think it’s great. Not to say I’m being a prat just to bring it out in you, although it could be a terrific excuse – I’m just a prat sometimes, and being stuck in this room doesn’t help. But I love it that you can tell me when I’m being an arse and that you’re not… you know. Scared to do that.”

That was a bit of an exaggeration, as he was _terrified_ to speak so bluntly, but Draco’s heart still did a ridiculous little double-flip. Now that he came to think about it, he supposed it really was something. Draco would never have dreamed of saying anything like that to anyone in years. Only Potter. His face relaxed as he looked at him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You really are a prat.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. You were absolutely right though, I really was being unfair. It’s just that… Draco, look. You asked me to wait a few more days for you. I know we’re not exactly balanced out yet, I know I have more… that I need to be more careful than you, but will it be fair for me to ask the same of you? To wait just a little longer? I swear it’s not because I’m trying to control you, and I have no desire to boss you around. I just can’t stand the thought of sending you somewhere unsafe on your own.”

That awful, wonderful, slick little prick. How come he knew just what to say? Draco scowled at him. “I really do hate you sometimes, too.” Potter’s grin was indecent.

“Actually, now that it’s come up, I’ve… er… been meaning to give you something. I wanted to give it to you that Saturday, but then, well, you know what happened.” Potter’s cheeks matched the color of his jumper, that terrible Gryffindor one he loved to wear. He fussed with something on the nightstand for a minute, then handed Draco a rectangular little box. It was smaller than his hand, grey and black. One side was smooth and flat, and the other had many little buttons with numbers on them. He handed it to Draco as if he’s supposed to know what the hell it meant.

“Er, what is…?” Draco tried politely, not even sure how to hold it correctly – which way was up? in the end he decided, instinctively, the side with the buttons was probably the top. One end of the rectangular was button-free and rather shiny, and just beyond it there were two little slits.

“This is a mobile phone,” Potter explained patiently. “It’s a communication method. A Muggle communication method.”

“A mobile – wait, did you say a mobile _phone_? Like a telephone?” Draco’s hesitancy turned into excitement. “Same as the ones Muggles use to talk to each other?”

“Exactly,” Potter beamed at him. “Only it’s mobile – you can take it with you. So you can call people wherever you are.”

“Call? Like a firecall?” Draco had heard of telephones – he did live in the Muggle world for years now – but he never actually used one, and didn’t really understand how they worked. “But it can’t operate on Floo powder, can it?”

“No, nothing like that. Basically the communication part is to do with radio waves, and the device itself operates on a battery, which – how familiar are you with electricity?”

“A little,” Draco said, but he was being modest. He _ruled_ eklectricity. Knew all about plugs and pockets, which could zap you if you stuck your fingers in them. How the light switch was attached by cords – not invisible, simply hidden behind the wall, so ingenious! – to the lightbulb itself, and all those little bits of electritisy flowed in it constantly. His chest swelled with pride as he said, “I know that it has to be turned _on_ for it to work.”

Potter’s smile widened. “That’s right. Same goes for mobiles, you need to switch them on. Here, press this – no, for a little longer. And then… see how it lights up?”

A cry of surprise escaped his lips before he could catch it; the shiny part of the rectangle was suddenly alive. Then it made a sound, a few jarring musical notes which made him grind his teeth, but Draco very bravely didn’t drop the whole thing to the floor. Many little squares formed a picture – hands! Two hands shaking! Then letters appeared, spelling NOKIA. “What kind of magic is this?” he asked, not really aware of what he was saying.

“No magic, just Muggle technology,” Potter laughed. “So now that it’s on, you can use it to make a call.”

“But how?” Draco asked, entranced. There were little lines along the right side of the lit surface and he was too excited to ask for their meaning.

“Well, you'd need to dial the number you want to reach.” Draco squinted, and Potter laughed again. “You see these little keys? You use them to make up the number. Try to press one – there, see how it comes up on the screen? But there’s a shorter way, if you press right here – can I show you? thanks – it takes you to contacts. And then… see the first one on the list?”

“It says – it says Harry!” Draco exclaimed. Potter’s smile did that thing it sometimes does, where it goes really-really soft all at once, and Draco’s stomach reacted automatically with a little dance.

“Uh-huh. So that means it’ll pop up directly with my mobile number. Here, press this one, right under where it says dial. It’ll be a second…” then suddenly a loud noise almost made him jump to his feet, some sort of terrible music, but Potter remained very calm. He opened the bedside cabinet’s drawer and pulled an angry, buzzing rectangle, similar to the one in Draco’s fingers. He pressed a button. “Hello?”

Draco did jump now. Potter’s voice erupted from the little rectangle, almost as loud as the actual Potter beside him. “H-hello?” Draco asked, very timidly, his hand holding the wonderous object a little shaky. Obviously he knew there was no fireplace in the room, and he understood Floo powder didn't actually play any part in it, still he was surprised that the actual _box_ was the source of this wizardry. And it was so small, it could fit in a pocket! Muggles would never cease to amaze him. Potter grinned and offered him his free hand, which Draco took, then sat down next to him on the bed.

“So with this little thing,” Potter’s doubled voice said, then he pressed a button and suddenly the rectangle went silent in Draco’s hand, “you can call me whenever you want. When you do go back home, I mean, or wherever, whenever you need. I was thinking that once you’ve mastered it, we could use it to chat in the evenings. This way you could – you know, make the call if you wanted me to come by or not. Ha, I didn’t mean it as a pun, just… you could decide for yourself if you wanted to see me.”

Draco stared at him and did his best not to cry. “I don’t… Potter, that’s not necessary.”

“It really is. You said we weren’t equal, and you were right. You have to have a say in it, too, or it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. This is just as much for my benefit as it is for yours, really.”

“But, Potter… it’s not going to be… I’m just going to tell you to come every night. You’d be sick of me.” The thought wasn’t just humiliating, it was crushing. Potter, who didn’t let go of his hand, squeezed.

“Nothing would make me happier than if you did, I swear. I love coming over to yours every night. But whether you tell me to come or to sod off, I promise I won’t take offence, and I’ll do just as you say. Because you were right, Draco. Only you can say what’s right for you. If you preferred you could come here, as well – I could apparate you, or maybe we could get one of those fixed, password-activated portkeys. Will that be all right? do you think it’s… does it sound okay? Am I doing this right?” he seemed so unsure of himself.

“You’re an absolute arsehole,” Draco said truthfully, the first thing that came to mind, then rested his head on Potter shoulders. “And… yes. Thank you.” They both fell silent.

It’s been a weird week, if that was any sort of way to describe it. A very, very weird week. Even Draco, who’s done weird before, was caught completely off guard by how _incredibly_ _weird_ it’s been. Every once in a while he stopped and just couldn’t help thinking, _what the hell is going on_? And indeed, what the hell _was_ going on? It was inconceivable. He was by Potter’s side all the fricking time, very and constantly close, and it was so surreal that he couldn’t even freak out about it anymore. He sat by his bed and made pointless chit-chat. He helped Kreacher make his favorite meals (and some he really didn’t like, the elf was very inconsistent in the kitchen). He gave Potter his medicine and made sure he actually took it, the big baby. He laughed with him, for crying out loud. _Fought_ with him, which was even more remarkable. And just… just was there, with him, all the time like that, like he somehow had the right to do it. It was absolutely the best thing he could have done, and the worst punishment he could imagine for himself. To tell the truth, Draco sort of missed kneeling.

He missed the pain of it, the burning shame, the near-crippling fear. But more than anything he missed knowing how and when he is going to be hurt, because this? This was absolute mayhem. There were times, whole hours even, when he could swear he was happy. _Swear_ on it. Potter would be very soft or very strict or maybe even asleep, and Draco would look at him, and he would be _happy_. But then that pull in his abdomen would remind him this was all just temporary. That this was not his place, and that it never could be. Sometimes Potter would give him this look, like Draco was something very precious he wanted to keep close, and Draco would just want to die, because it couldn’t be for him. Not if Potter really knew him, like He did. If Potter knew who he really was – _when_ Potter discovers how pathetic, worthless, untrustworthy he really is – he’s sure to chuck him out without a second glance. Sitting there, waiting for it to happen was excruciating. It was the only form of punishment he could exercise at the moment, and most likely the cruelest of them all.

It was just so unbelievable, this constant push and pull, away from and towards Potter. How he was desperate to be near him, to open up to him, and how he was terrified of it at the same time. How he could do nothing, nothing against it, because Potter needed him, and Draco discovered he was addicted to that. To be wanted was good and heady and powerful, but to be _needed_ was what he lived for. And so it was a very sweet type of torment that carried him through the days. Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it – having all this _fucking warmth_ , this _soft_ and _Potter_ , getting used to it – only to have it ripped from him again soon enough. He often reckoned that no, it probably wasn’t. But there was nothing to it, because he’d already given himself away long ago.

He did, didn’t he? Was there not a fight, a great battle? A war he waged, him against himself, in which somehow, Potter turned victorious? He let go of himself that terrible night. And then again when he kissed him, in the night that shall not be named. Then again when he saved his life, again when he decided to stay with him… there was no way around it; Draco had given up, and Potter had him now, for as long as he wanted him. Potter had a claim on him, strong and indisputable, because Draco _let_ him have it, and therefore there was no surprise in how fast he was spinning out of control. Potter could say a word and Draco would open, _cut_ himself open to please him, and it was just so very confusing, because Potter didn’t even want him to hurt. For even if he was a little cranky and easier to annoy in close quarters, this was still Potter. The same Potter who wanted him to buy a new coat because he wanted Draco to be warm. The same Potter who kneeled with him. Potter who was so… just so… Draco had no idea what he was, only that he wanted it. He wanted him _so_ badly, which only made it that much more terrifying, and all the more painful. It was an absolute, out-of-this-world nightmare, and Draco wasn’t unfamiliar with suffering.

They haven’t spoken about the kiss or anything like it since Weasley’s first visit, because even Draco had some limits. True that Weasley rattled on about a ‘mystery man’ Potter had romantic feelings for, but it was quite apparent from Potter’s behavior that he thought nothing of the sort about _him_. He cared about him, yes – as a friend, like he’d said so many times. He wasn’t interested in anything beyond that. Which was fine, should have been fine, would be fine. Just as soon as Draco could get a grip on himself and stopped having these absurd dreams about him. Because even if he tried to deny it, which he did, all the time, Draco couldn’t quit thinking about Potter… like that. He did everything he bloody could to stop it, but it just wouldn’t go away. And in all honesty, as angry as he was with himself about it, Draco couldn’t really blame himself for this one; have you seen Potter? He was a fucking god. And so he did what he was so good at and just let it go. When he was with Potter, which was basically all the time, he was content. It fucking hurt, but he was content. It scared him to no end, but he was content. At times even happy. So… What more could he do but try to make use of whatever time he had left with Potter, before it will all be snatched away from him? Nothing much. He burrowed his head into Potter’s shoulder unintentionally until he felt the other man move.

“You okay?” he asked, and Draco just wasn’t strong enough for this.

“Yes, sorry. Got a little lost in my head again.”

Potter’s hand was still holding his, and Draco would die for him right here and now, whatever the hell that meant. “That’s all right. Sorry for getting in the way. Are you comfortable like this?”

Draco looked down at his body. He sat by Potter’s side, feet on the bed (shoes off, he wasn’t a savage). His hand was clammy where it was clasped in Potter’s. His neck was a little sore with the angle in which he was leaning. His heart beat a crazy jive in his chest and it ached. There was nothing he wanted more than to just stay there forever. There was nothing that could hurt him more. “Yes.”

Potter’s soft laughter was like silver fucking bells. “Draco, I don’t know if I’ve quite… thanked you yet. For – well, for all of it.”

“You’ve nothing to thank me for.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t even begin to thank you for everything you’ve done. Saving my life. Taking care of me. Not kicking me in the face when I’m being an absolute arse. You’re… thank you so much.”

Draco shook his head slowly. “I should be the one thanking you. For protecting me, thinking about what I… want…”

Potter’s fingers tightened around his. “I love protecting you. Thinking about you. I’m… I’m just so happy that you’re here.”

“Me too,” Draco whispered, leaning against him with his throat all constricted. It was somewhat true. And besides, he would cut himself _so deep_ if Potter ever asked him to. If he’d have the time to do that.

“Will it be okay if I…” Draco looked up at him, and was struck momentarily speechless by the soft longing on Potter’s face. “Can I just… hold you?”

He nodded – or tried to, at least, for he was a little faint all of a sudden and his heart simply gave in. Potter’s hand let go of his and he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, the other one around his hips. Draco didn’t exactly melt into him, for it was physically impossible, but he came very close. He sneaked his arms around Potter’s chest and held tight. And if by any chance he was sobbing quietly into Potter’s neck, well, then there was nothing at all he could do about that.

***

The healers found a way to help Potter restore some of his physical strength, but his magic still suffered. It was a little painful to see him doing the exercise they’d given him daily, always with the light of hope glimmering in his eyes when he started, which turned into bitter disappointment when there was no apparent improvement. Potter was used to being so strong and able, and it clearly broke his heart not to be so all of a sudden. Weasley and Granger visited very often (Draco came to think of Potter’s bathroom as ‘his place’ nowadays, since he ardently refused to go wait in the guestroom all alone. But there was a bright side to all the time he spent in there - at least he could kneel without raising any questions). Lovegood and Longbottom came by a couple of times too. And while a visit from his friends seemed to brighten him up, Draco was stunned to discover that the thing which calmed Potter down the most, which made him smile that earnest, stupid smile of his, was actually… Draco. Especially whenever they touched. After their embrace that evening, Potter was practically gleeful. There was another instance of hands-running-through-hair which had Potter grinning madly for hours. Draco didn’t really know what to do with it, not with the realization and not with what it meant, but he tried not to get too pleased about it all. Everything good always came to an end. It was just a little harder to remember that when Potter’s eyes shimmered and his smile stretched on his face and he was so fucking _alive_ that nothing else really mattered.

They had a pretty calm morning, with Potter reading bits of the Prophet out loud which he thought might interest Draco, while the latter busied himself sewing a hole in Potter’s jumper. Since the nitwit was supposed to lay off his magic for as much as possible, he wasn’t able to mend it with a spell. While not the best with household chores, Draco did have some experience with mending clothes the old Muggle way, and so he volunteered for the mission. Worst case scenario, he thought, Potter could ask one of his magically-able friends to fix it up later. Potter had just turned the page when he let out a soft gasp.

“What?” Draco tensed immediately. He tried to read Potter’s expression, but the paper covered half of it. “What is it?”

“It’s… er… hmm.” Potter looked at him, questioning. Draco accidentally poked himself with the needle. “It’s about someone you know. A good thing, though. Do you – do you want me to read it?”

That was the reason they did it this way; Potter was kind enough to skip the parts he thought would hurt Draco to hear, so Draco preferred it far better than reading on his own. He cleared his throat. “A… good thing? Are you sure?”

“Yes, definitely good.” Draco considered it for a moment before nodding. Potter’s smile was his softest yet. “It’s your friend Parkinson. Apparently she’s been promoted to lead a Ministry task-force. Isn’t that great? Sounds like a huge deal from what they write. Says here she’s the first – oh.”

“The first what?” Draco didn’t like the look on his face.

“No, just, the first – erm – former Death Eater to gain such a high position in the Ministry.”

Draco scoffed. Hard. “Pansy? A Death Eater? She was never. What utter rubbish.”

Potter’s tight smile relaxed a little. “Yeah, no, I know. Stupid Prophet, right? Whatever they can write that’ll sell more copies.” He scanned through the article. “They don’t specify what it is exactly she’s going to do, which makes me think it might be related to the… huh. Well, the paper’s not been saying anything about another attack for a while, so maybe it’s not that. She gave them a quote, want to hear it?”

He wasn’t sure that he did, but Draco nodded anyway. It was far too tempting to walk away now. Words that came right out of Pansy’s mouth… “Yes, please.”

“’I am delighted to be able to take part in one of the Ministry’s most advanced endeavors yet. Together with the Department of Magical Relations’ – hey, that’s where Hermione works! – ‘I do believe we can really make a change. Ask me about my parent’s reaction to it one more time, Roberts, and I will asphyxiate you using this hair tie.’ Wow, wouldn’t want to run into her in a dark alleyway. That’s probably the reason they came up with the whole Death Eater bullshit.”

Draco’s heart threatened to choke him, and for a while he could not respond. Pansy. His Pansy. And she sounded so… the smile that worked his lips was equal parts bitter and sweet. “She’s just the same as she always was. Gods, I miss her.”

“Hey, come here,” Potter reacted to his expression, and Draco dutifully got up and settled himself next to Potter on his bed. “There’s a picture of her. Would you like to see? Wow, did she always have a tattoo?”

Draco was almost tempted enough to look, but he didn’t think he could stomach it. “No, thanks. What kind of tattoo? And where?”

Potter observed the paper and chuckled. “It’s a little hard to see, only the tail is popping from behind her collar. It looks a little like… you know what? I think it might be a dragon.” Now Draco was glad he didn’t look. It would have hurt way too much, because he was fairly certain he knew why she’d choose to get that particular tattoo. “What is it with you Slytherins and tattoos? Have to be badass or you get thrown out of your dorms?”

Draco scoffed half-heartedly. “It’s not like I had too much of a choice with mine.” Then he wanted to slap himself, because what a fucking stupid thing was that to say?

Potter looked like he really wanted to reply to that, but stopped himself. In the end he cleared his throat and looked away. “This actually reminds me of something. I’ve had a… well, I suppose it’s a question. Would it be all right if I asked?” Draco shrugged helplessly, and Potter soldiered through. “You said there was a connection between you and your ex. That he knew things about you that he shouldn’t have been able to know. And – you also said that he gave you that tattoo, that there’s magic in it.”

By the way he looked at him, Potter must have thought that was enough to go on, and Draco should be able to join the dots from here. He was wrong. “And?”

“And, I guess I was wondering if… do you think it’s possible that the magic in the tattoo is somehow connecting you? That there’s a charm in it, or something that opens a channel between you, or… something a little less creepy, but in that direction?”

Draco stared at him for a moment. “What made you think of that?”

“No, nothing in particular. Just with – the Dark Mark – “

“Fucking hell, Potter, I knew that’s where you were going. My – _He_ is not the bloody Dark Lord. He didn’t _mark_ me, just gave me a… a way out of what G- Alan did to me.”

Potter had the decency to look embarrassed. “I know, I know he isn’t. That’s not what I meant. Just that the only other magical tattoo that I know of is what Voldemort gave his followers, and you know how it sort of created a portal between them. And with what you’ve told me, how he knows how you feel, everything about you… I just thought it might be related to that.”

Draco shook his head. “Well, it’s not.” He didn’t think it was, in any case. _He_ didn’t need a spell to know everything about Draco. _He_ just did.

“All right. If you say so. Sorry I brought it up.”

He let out a sigh. “It’s all right. Sorry if I was a little… I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sure you have more questions, but I just don’t really want to talk about Him, if that’s all right.”

Potter gave him a long look. “All right. If you really don’t want to, we won’t talk about him. I won’t ask anymore.”

“I don’t,” Draco said as quickly as he could. Not that he thought it would make much of a difference, since Potter could never shut up about this, but whatever. Therefore he was quite surprised when Potter nodded and turned the page in his paper. “Wait, really?”

“What?”

“You really won’t ask?”

Potter looked up at him. “You said you didn’t want me to.”

The fact that he cared about that was already enough to destroy him, but Draco was a masochist after all, and he needed more. “So what?”

If he wasn’t sitting so close to him, he would not have heard Potter’s tiny sigh. “I’m done making you do things, Draco. I don’t need another reminder of how… I know where I stand with you, all right?”

“Where is that?” Draco really wanted to know. And didn’t. And did. The loop was driving him crazy.

“I’m your friend,” Potter said, and for some reason his voice cracked at that. “I know you care about me. And you know how much I care about you. We don’t need anything more than that, and I’ll never… I can’t stand the thought of forcing you to do anything.” Draco was acutely aware now of the several inches separating them. Potter was making an effort not to touch him. He was always so careful.

“You didn’t force me. You never forced me to do anything.”

“It doesn’t count when you can’t say no, Draco. I’ve been – I know I made some mistakes. I never should have asked you the other day to… I’m sorry. I’m working on it, but it takes times. I hope you can forgive me.”

He did, but he had no idea what for, so he said nothing to that. “I can say no to you.”

“Really? Can you really?”

“Haven’t I already? Dozens of times?”

Potter’s eyes were very sad. “Not where it counts. Not where you felt vulnerable.”

“Potter – “

“No, Draco, please. Don’t… don’t tempt me. It’s hard enough to control myself as it is, you know. That night when you kissed me because you thought that’s what I wanted – “

Boy, did that hurt. Draco bit his lip and tried to tell himself he enjoyed the pain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I knew afterwards you didn’t want to kiss me, but at the time – “

“What are you talking about? Of course I wanted to kiss you. That’s exactly the problem. You only did it because I wanted to and you thought you owed it to me. And I didn’t even stop you, Draco. I wasn’t strong enough to do that. And now I have you sitting on my bed like a stupid prick and… fuck, I’m screwing everything up.”

Now he was completely confused. “Wait, you – you wanted to? Really? You didn’t just say that?”

Potter seemed just as bewildered. “Of course I did. You knew that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Draco said, very quietly. “I had no idea. I thought you ran away that night because you didn’t want to do it. I thought I ruined everything. That’s why I was so upset when you came over on Friday.”

“You really didn’t know?” Potter whispered, and Draco shook his head. The green eyes widened, sensitive and so open, it was all he could do not to look away. “Then why did you… why did you kiss me?”

Draco squinted at him. He didn’t think Potter was actively trying to humiliate him, not with the way he looked at him just now, but he was doing a good job of it regardless. “Because I wanted to, Potter. I wanted to kiss you.”

“You did?”

He was getting annoyed. “Yes, of course I did. Why else would I – you know I don’t really do the whole… touching thing so easily. I wanted to kiss you for ages. Then you were just so – so bloody – I couldn’t help it anymore. Is that what you wanted to hear, you arsehole?”

The arsehole laughed. There was such a strong note of relief in that sound, Draco wasn’t even offended. “You really wanted to kiss me?”

“Are we quite certain you didn't sustain a permanent injury to your head?” he asked, but there was no venom in his tone. Potter laughed again.

“Do you – are you – do you still want to? Kiss me, that is?”

Words failed him for a moment, and all Draco could do was stare. “What, do you mean right now?”

“Yes, right now. Would you like to kiss me right now?”

Was it some sort of test? Draco’s eyes narrowed even more. “But you don’t – “

“Forget about what I want for a second. Think about what _you_ want. Do you want to kiss me right now, yes or no? Please answer honestly.”

He did not need to think about it. He knew for weeks and weeks and years and so forth. Draco nodded. Potter laughed a third time, closing his eyes, and Draco was horrified to see tears forming in their corners. One slipped down his cheek, leaving a wet trail.

“Draco, can I…?” he asked after a moment, green blazes opening, and Draco quivered with excitement and fear. Nothing made sense about it, nothing made sense anymore in general, but he knew the only possible answer to this question.

“Yes,” he breathed, and Potter’s hands rose as if he spelled them up. They stopped an inch away from his cheeks.

“Can I?” Draco knew Potter had a soft tone, he got accustomed to that. But _this_ was a whole new level of softness.

“Yes,” he whispered, and the warm fingers wrapped around his face. Automatically he closed his eyes, fear taking the lead for a second. But then he opened them again, because fuck it, this was his Potter, no one else. His Potter who wouldn’t hurt him. _His_ Potter.

“Can I…” but before he finished the question Draco dove forward, his lips crashing onto Potter’s soft ones. The hands on his face tightened, but not painfully so, not possessively, just _warm_. Potter was so warm and soft all around him and Draco trembled in his hands, on his lips, in his soul. Potter wanted to kiss him. Potter wanted him. Fucking _hell_. Without even thinking his hands found their way around Potter’s neck, and one of them wandered to the soft mess of hair on his head. Potter moaned into his lips, and Draco was ecstatic. Ecstatic. This was the reason he was still alive. This was what living meant.

Potter stayed very still, and a part of Draco kept expecting him to turn like he did the last time, but he never did. When a few seconds passed and nothing happened, Draco opened his mouth experimentally. Potter’s tongue sent inside it immediately, but it moved very gently, curiously even. First it licked his lower lip, making Draco’s trembling increase in volume. Then it met his tongue with light, playful touches, and Draco found himself mirroring his movements. Their tongues danced, and Potter tasted a little like raspberry from the yogurt he ate before, and like strong tea and like warmth, and Draco was enthralled. One of Potter’s hands travelled down to hold the back of his neck gently, the other still cupping his cheek. His breath, heavy, was warm on Draco’s upper lip. Everything moved so _slowly_ , it almost didn’t feel scary at all. Draco found his tongue, always the brave one, sending out to meet Potter’s in excited little flicks. Suddenly he wanted to explore further; he ran it over Potter’s teeth, admiring their smooth texture; over Potter’s lips, so soft; up and down Potter’s tongue, asking, answering, feeling. And all the while Potter didn’t move his head, nothing but his tongue and his hands to even indicate he was still awake. His eyes were closed, and his face – whatever of it Draco could see – was deeply entranced. Draco sighed contentedly into Potter’s lips and closed his eyes.

He tilted his head to the side, giving Potter’s tongue better leverage, but the other man didn’t try to deepen the kiss. Draco felt weirdly in control right now. Potter didn’t move, didn’t initiate anything, just waited for Draco to decide what he wanted to do. Realizing that only made him want it even more, and he nearly crashed Potter’s head against the headboard with how fast he moved. Potter returned Draco’s fire with passion, stroking his hair, moaning shamelessly and panting, and Draco _loved_ – well, loved it, he definitely loved it. Potter may have felt the sudden hesitation in him, for he gently detached himself from Draco’s lips and struggled to open his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, and Draco whimpered out loud with it all. “Draco?”

“Yes, I’m okay.” Draco closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Potter’s. “You?”

Potter laughed. “I’m… yeah, fine. I’m great, actually.” Draco could feel the waves of his laughter on his face, and it made him shiver with need.

“You really are. Great.” Potter didn’t reply to that, probably was too stunned. “And a git, obviously.”

Now he relaxed. “Yes, obviously a git. Draco, are you sure that this is okay? Are you sure it’s what you want?”

With some pains, Draco pulled away so he could look into the green eyes, a little less green now with how wide the pupil was in them. “More than anything I ever wanted, you prat.”

Potter’s smile was wide enough to fit Draco’s whole hand. “Fuck, it’s… really?”

“Ask me one more time and I _will_ find a hair tie to asphyxiate you with.”

He didn’t ask again. Instead Potter placed his head on Draco’s shoulder, and they stayed like that for a while without speaking. Draco couldn’t tell if he was mortified with what he just let happen, or if he was so fucking happy that he couldn’t even care. It will probably take some time to decide how he felt about it all. For now he was with Potter, and he was content, and the rest of it can fuck off.


	20. And Now What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> So, fair warning: this chapter kicked me in the butt. Repeatedly. It's not any more twisted than the rest of them, but for some reason it was a real pain to write, a thing which I have been doing and redoing constantly for the past few days - just enough to keep me perfectly frazzled. Why am I telling you this? Partly because I feel like whining, but also because I wanted to take this opportunity (chapter 20, can you believe it?!) to say a huge, warm, sincere and embarrassingly sappy thank you.  
> No, but seriously. Your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and just plain interest (did I say comments? Because god, I love them so, so much) are incredible. Uploading this fic before it was finished seemed like a silly move sometimes, but the drive I get from seeing you guys react to it is priceless. It pushes me to keep fighting the pain-in-the-butt chapters, and I just wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart. I never expected... well, anything, really. And I still don't. I'm just eternally grateful, and - it's - ugh, I think I spent my weekly word quota on this chapter. So just... thank you so much. Thanks for sticking with me through this incredibly long, incredibly dark, annoyingly intermittent story. I promise to do my best - we are on the final stretch (can you see the end in the horizon? Can you feel it coming? Not too many chapters left now...) I just wanted you to know that having you here truly means the world to me. 
> 
> Okay, Robin, eww, enough with the gushing already! Jeez! Where do you get off, lady?!  
> All done, I promise. Now back to business, yes? Let's do it. onto the chapter!  
> Clear your minds... think positive and relaxing thoughts... excellent...  
> Here we go.

The world was a very bizarre place, Draco came to realize. Very, very bizarre. Even more bizarre than he previously suspected. Just when he thought he was close to finally understanding it, when it became nearly comfortable, the whole thing just twisted and turned and became something else altogether. He was all right with the way it was before, honest. He’d _accepted_ it. He was familiar with it, gods be damned. And then Harry Bloody Potter had to come and tear it wide open, changing absolutely everything. Everything! Not a single thing was still in its place inside Draco’s head, and he didn’t know what to do with this new world he suddenly found himself in. He did not understand its rules and could not protect himself from its lashes. He didn’t even know who the hell he was in it. Not in the broad, more general sense, and not in the very necessary, specific sense. Was he the man who kneeled in a frosty Azkaban cell, or the man who saved Harry Potter’s life? Was he the worthless sack of shit who belonged on the floor, or very much a human being fit to lie on something made especially for him? Was he His, His and His alone, or the man who kissed Potter? Who, in the name of Merlin’s soggy pants, was he?

Draco didn’t know, but he didn’t spend too much time dwelling on it, for there were far more important things to think about. There was Potter, for instance. Potter who _wanted him_. Potter who thought he was good enough. Not in a million years would he have been able to guess it; Potter wanted him, he did, he really did, all this time, and Draco was none the wiser. He had no idea his Potter could be so unexpected. His Potter. Gods, Draco could not stop repeating these words in his head, over and over again like a chant. His Potter. And to even imagine he’s worthy enough to think that…

He was so confused. So, so, so confused. This new world was bizarre and life was wonderous and Potter wanted him and fuck, _fuck_ , it was all really happening. Potter really was there, with his bloody Potteriness that was so enchanting and frustrating simultaneously. His Potter. There were absolutely no words Draco could use to describe what it did to him. He could scoff in disbelief all he wanted, but the truth was there in the green eyes. It practically screamed at him every time Potter smiled.

And dear gods above, Potter had such a gorgeous smile.

It was all Draco could see now every time he closed his eyes; Potter’s fucking beautiful smile. If it wasn’t such an enormous improvement from what he used to see before (namely gore and terror), he might have been concerned with what it could possibly mean. However, as it was currently saving him from abusing his mind to death, he didn’t complain. And what exactly did he have to complain about? Potter’s smile was perfect. Wider than should be possible, bright like in a Muggle toothpaste ad. Draco was a sucker for a smile, he’d do most anything to get one, and the thing about Potter’s was that he _didn’t even have to try_. Potter would smile readily and entirely for his benefit. That, more than anything, was what Draco couldn’t resist. Potter wanted him to be warm, yes, and he was the solid form of good, right, and he was fit and objectively beautiful, all that was true, but then there was his smile. It was his smile that made Draco go absolutely, recklessly bonkers for him. It was his smile that had Draco in such deep, deep trouble.

And in trouble indeed he was. He didn’t even know how to begin handling this odd and unreasonable concept, Potter wanting him. His whole mind was abuzz with it; he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, could hardly even breathe right. _Potter wanted him._ It made so little sense, and raised so many questions he had no hopes of ever answering. What on earth could he, an eggshell of a man, cracked and useless, give the great Potter? How can he be so very much Potter’s when he was still His? Where inside him was He, and where was Potter? Incidentally, where was he himself in all of that? Draco had no idea. Moreover, he didn’t think he could ever even hazard a guess. What would a compartmentalizing genius do in this situation, one might ask? Oh, that’s right. He shoved it all way, way, _way_ down the maze of his thoughts, far enough to probably never be seen again. These questions can ruin a man, and Draco was ruined enough already. He will focus, then, on the things that merited attention: _Potter, Potter, Potter_. He will _not_ pay any heed to the rattle coming from behind the curtain of his own desperation.

Easier said than done, yes, he did realize that, and Draco really did struggle. Two whole days passed since the kiss, and Potter didn’t even so much as brush against him, just gave him all the space in the world. Draco didn’t know if he was grateful or furious about it – it hardly mattered, though, as he had very little time to explore either option. The silly prat didn’t quit grinning for one goddamned second, and Draco couldn’t possibly concentrate on anything else. It’s been a wild, hysterical, confusing couple of days, and as the third emerged upon them, Draco was beat. Potter, on the other hand, seemed to be taking it all in quite the opposite manner.

Draco didn’t really have the audacity to claim any stakes in this feat, but it did seem as though ever since their kiss, Potter was on a rapid spurt of recovery. Or at least, he regained much of his physical strength – his magic remained exceptionally weak. Still he was able to stand easily now, to walk, hop even, _glide_ through the house like a man in a dream. He showed Draco this room and that, as if he hadn’t spent two weeks in this musty place already (though to be fair, he did spend the majority of said time by Potter’s bed, and took very little efforts to tour around). And all the while the blighter had that blasted smile plastered on his face, which to be honest was beginning to be worrisome. It was too good. Nothing this good could last, Draco knew. And alas, because in the end life was nothing but a cruel joke, this was the time Draco proved to be right.

In the evening of the third day Potter sat him down at the kitchen table wearing what was probably the most delicate expression he could manifest. “Draco, we need to talk.”

Oof. A painful start, to be sure. Apprehension did laps around his chest, but Draco worked to keep his face neutral. “What is it?”

“I think you know.” Draco reckoned he did, but not why Potter looked so damn somber about it. “You know how I’ve been doing really well recently.”

“Recently meaning the last three days?” he asked pointedly. Potter nodded.

“Yeah, so it wasn’t super long or anything, but still it’s much better. You know I have to go back, right? You understand that.”

He let out a sigh. “Your condition has somewhat improved, yes, but Potter – “

“No, I know what you’re going to say. My magic is still… I know I’m not in top shape yet, but there’s hardly any time to wait. With everything that’s going on…”

“You said there weren’t any attacks now!” Draco protested. Potter said that several times the past week.

“There haven’t been many new developments, no, but it doesn’t mean anything. For all we know, they could be getting ready for something big. And it’s just – they need me back in the department, Draco. I need to go back. I’ll be very careful, Cap won’t allow for anything else, but I have to do this.”

Draco rolled his eyes and bit the response that was aching to spring from his lips. Potter was not a man with whom one could hope to see reason. Besides, his arguments were getting a little repetitive; he’d already told Potter many times how there was no use in an Auror who couldn’t so much as levitate a quill. How it was dangerous, stupid even, to send him back to the field where he could not protect himself from the simplest spell. Draco knew well enough Potter had already made his decision, and that there was zero chance of changing his mind. No matter how close he wanted to keep Potter ( _forever,_ the voice in his head whispered, and Draco was genuinely frightened), there was nothing he could say. The only thing left to do was shrug his defeat.

“There’s actually something else I wanted to talk about. It’s – well – about you.”

“What about me?” Draco bristled. Potter, sat across from him at the table, twiddled his thumbs nervously.

“That’s exactly it. What about you? What are you going to do now?”

“Oh. Right.” Draco lowered his gaze to his own thumbs clasped on his lap. What about him? “I don’t suppose you think it’s wise for me to go back to the shop yet?”

Potter sounded very morose. “No, honestly I don’t, not yet. Ron’s been great, but since I never told him which shop to look into specifically – I didn’t want to give him any ideas about who it might belong to – the information he was able to give wasn’t as direct as I would like. I don’t think there’s been any suspicious activity exactly, but there were some people hanging about that I want to get a better look at. Now that I’d be able to do some actual work myself, I think I’d get down to the heart of it fast enough. So yeah, if you ask for my opinion, I would advise on you staying here a bit longer.”

Draco’s throat was a little tight as he nodded. “All right then.”

“Draco…” Potter’s sigh made him look up unintentionally. “This is your choice, okay? You’re the only one who can decide: it’s your life, your job. Merlin, you’ve already lost two weeks of business because of me. It’s really up to you.”

It took some effort not to laugh. Nothing was ever really up to Draco, and this issue was no different. He measured Potter in his glance, searching for the obvious lie, but there were no traces of it on his face. For a startling moment Draco thought that perhaps Potter actually meant it – that if he said he wanted to leave, Potter would really allow him to go. The idea made him shiver.

Did he want to leave? If he went back, he’d be all alone; there was no knowing when He would return. And until then – the thought of spending another night on his own, especially after getting so used to having Potter nearby, was downright frightening. Also, though far less significant, was the threat Potter kept alluding to. Draco didn’t really believe he’d be in danger from whoever it was that attacked Potter – he wasn’t important enough to be targeted, for one thing – but it didn’t help to see just how nervous Potter was about the prospect. Draco looked at him again, uncertainty spilling from his lips before he could think better of it.

“Do you mean it?” he dug his elbows in his stomach and leaned forward on the table. His voice was embarrassingly small.

“Of course I do. I told you, I wouldn’t make any more decisions for you. We'll do whatever you want.” The green eyes were so bloody earnest.

Draco didn’t know what to think. Potter was truly going to leave it in his hands, and that was absolutely shocking. Draco was so painfully unaccustomed to it. Who would have given him a choice before? The Dark Lord? Grove? _Him?_ To imagine Him saying these words was almost comical. A great shudder rocked his entire body; Draco avoided thinking about Him for as long as he could, but sooner or later he’d have to. Time was still running out in his hourglass. At some point He _will_ return, and Draco will have to go with Him. Potter will be nothing but a painful memory in his mind. And he didn’t even know…

“I’ll stay. Another week, if that’s okay with you. Then we can reassess the situation.” The visible relief on Potter’s face broke his heart. He didn’t know what a pathetic, unfaithful wreck Draco was. How much he didn’t deserve his trust and affection. But he could not bear being away from him while there was still a chance to be near… he would cling to Potter for as long as the stupid man allows him.

“Thank you, Draco. I mean, I understand you’re not doing it for me, but… still. I – just – thanks for trusting me, I guess.” He moved his hand to the center of the table, and Draco grabbed it without a moment’s hesitation, his chest aching. _Potter wanted him._ “It won’t be forever. When we’re sure it’s safe, you could return and… you know, go back to your life. I’m really, really sorry about all of it.”

“Well, next time try not to die somewhere else, will you?” Draco asked and forced a tiny smile on his face. “Terribly inconvenient.”

Potter chuckled. “My sincere apologies. Next time I’ll bleed to death at someone else’s door.”

“That’d be kind,” Draco nodded. “Potter, are you sure that you’re ready to – “

“Draco, please. We’ve had this conversation a million times. Please let’s not have it again.”

He conceded with another shrug. “So, do you have anything in mind for tonight? Kreacher taught me how to make that lasagna you like. You do like it, right? It’s hard to tell with him. Your elf has some very weird ideas when it comes to a proper meal, and I’m not the most… er… experienced.”

Potter laughed. “I thought maybe I could cook for you tonight. You’ve been working very hard for the past two weeks, it’s about time I did my part.”

Draco scoffed. “I hardly did anything. Kreacher did most if not all of the work. Whereas I don’t normally mind taking credit, I’d hate for you to think I’m some sort of master chef. The reason I suggested lasagna is the instructions to make it are written on the box.”

That damn smile had his heart at max speed. “I don’t think you’re a master chef, I know it. Master of toast, if nothing else.”

“I don’t think that’s as much of a compliment as you imagine it to be,” Draco said, a touch breathless. “And besides, I don’t want you working too hard. You may be better, but you’d still do well to rest.”

“No, I’ve had enough rest for a lifetime. I have an idea – why don’t we make something together? I have a feeling that the two of us can whip up something great. What with your… innovative approach to cooking, and my age-old techniques, we’d make the perfect team.”

Draco shook his head and prayed for mercy. Potter was just too much sometimes. With a huge sigh he got to his feet, and the both of them began the dreaded process. After ten minutes of heated deliberation they agreed on making spaghetti (Draco was a little worried, but Potter gave him his word it’d be good) in Carbonara sauce, a recipe Potter said passed down from generation to generation in his family. Draco didn’t really have the courage to ask more about it, and so he found himself out of valid arguments pretty fast. Before he even knew it he was grating cheese into a big bowl.

Potter’s method of cooking, or his ‘age-old technique’, appeared to be nothing short of chaos. Draco was hardly surprised, considering how the idiot kept his bedroom, but still it was a sight to behold. Dishes gathered quickly in the sink, garlic peel littered the floor, and bacon grease decorated the wall like an indeliberate Rorschach test. It was an utter mess, and throughout it all Potter was unbelievably chipper, distractingly so. It was harder than ever for Draco to sink back into his thoughts; Potter practically forced him to stay in the moment with the way he was humming – _humming_ , for Merlin’s sake! – as he went along chopping and stirring. Prancing around in his blue woolen jumper, his hair just as unruly as ever, green eyes alight and his whole demeanor cheerful and calm, he was simply irresistible. Gravity must have been going through some sort of an existential crisis as well, for it worked all funny; Draco found himself pulled towards him as if Potter were a strong magnet. He was just so fucking beautiful.

“How do you do it?” he asked by accident, handing over the garlic he cubed.

“Do what?” Potter smiled and added it to the sizzling pan of butter and bacon. Draco sighed softly.

“Cooking,” he said eventually, because he didn’t really know what he meant to say. “How come you’re so good at it?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’m – well, all right, I am good. It’s actually Mrs. Weasley who taught me how to do it.”

“She did?” With a sure hand Potter poured spaghetti into a pot of boiling water and stirred the ingredients in the pan with the other.

“Yeah, right after the war ended I spent a few months at the Burrow. Ginny and I were still together, and Ron and Hermione were there too, so it kind of made sense. We all had this… I didn’t want to go too far away, you know? There was so much darkness everywhere still.”

Draco nodded, though he really had no idea. He spent those months in house arrest with his mother, dreading what was to come. “I can't imagine it was very cheerful there, what with everything that’s happened.” For a second Potter’s hand shook, the pan going with it.

“No, not so cheerful. Everyone was really on edge all the time, none of us knew what to do. Molly… she was struggling a little, shutting herself off in the kitchen, and I sort of found myself spending a lot of time there with her. I don’t remember if I told you she offered to adopt me?”

“What?” Draco was surprised. Not by the notion – Potter was practically a Weasley all the way back in first year – but by the fact she actually asked.

“Yeah, when I turned eighteen. She said she knew I’m no longer a child, and it really wouldn’t mean much, but if I wanted to be a part of the family more – officially – “ he chuckled and added the cheese Draco grated to the pan. “She knew all about my relatives, what kind of people they were. She said I deserved a real family for a change.”

Draco looked at the floor in an attempt to find some relief. Thinking of a young, lost, lonely Potter wasn’t something he could do so easily. “What did you say?”

“I said I didn’t need any formal papers telling me where I belonged. That I knew in my heart who my real family was. So… yeah, she taught me all I needed to know about cooking. What we’re making tonight is her recipe, by the way. Generations upon generations of Prewetts made it, if you believe half her stories.” Potter’s voice was thick, and Draco hurried to his side almost like he was Accioed. “Erm…” Potter gave him a questioning look, to which he nodded, but the man was still hesitant. “Are you sure?”

Instead of replying he nudged him a little until Potter lifted his arm, allowing Draco to sneak under it and wrap both his own either side of Potter’s torso. He held on tight, and from there on the movement was quick; Potter nearly crushed him in his one-armed, sideways embrace, and Draco bent to lean his head against Potter’s chest. Even from behind the thick jumper he could hear Potter’s heart beating wildly, and he closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling. To be in his arms… to be held like this… he could cry right now if he didn’t hold himself just as tightly. The pan in Potter’s other hand stopped shaking.

It was awkward, very uncomfortable, far too warm, and absolutely perfect. Clouds of confusion and fear swarmed in his head, but it didn’t matter because all he knew for sure was that he needed this, so bad, needed it forever and now he was actually getting it. Being held. Being close. Feeling his heartbeat match Potter’s rhythm like a total psychopath. Feeling like he was here, fully here, like he was real. Feeling like he existed. In Potter’s arms, in Potter’s eyes, he really did. And maybe… maybe it was even okay for him to want that? Maybe he was allowed to admit that he loved –

No, hold on just a minute. Draco rubbed his face against the scratchy fabric and took a deep breath, but inhaling so much of Potter’s scent only sent him further down the road to panic. He couldn’t think about these things – _love_ and _allowed_ and _existing_ , all of which led to the same thing – Him – because, well, he really didn’t want to have to kill himself. Right now, at least, Draco didn’t want to die. Perhaps he never did. Perhaps he wanted to live, and to be alive, and to be touched like Potter was touching him now. Perhaps he could even have it. So rather than thinking he nuzzled further into the jumper and took a few more deep breaths of Potter, watching him struggle to crack the eggs with only one free hand. This was it. This was bloody it. He shut his mind off and relished just being here.

It was all going exceptionally fine, albeit a little precariously, for approximately five minutes. Potter’s hand rested on Draco’s hip, a little lower than he would have chosen, but still far away enough from real trouble. The wool in Potter’s jumper tickled his nostrils and Draco’s hair kept getting in his eyes, and everything was perfect. For five minutes Draco was unequivocally happy. He would have been more careful, should have been more careful, but something about this whole thing made him dumb with desire. The way Potter held him like it was a _natural_ thing was just mind-boggling, and Draco forgot. He simply forgot. So when Potter moved to drain the spaghetti he didn’t remove himself straightaway, instead stupidly turned into him, seeking the lost contact. Which would have been fine, had the palm of Potter’s hand not landed on the small of Draco’s back and pressed, accidentally, exactly on the spot in the center.

It took less than a second to come into effect, and there was nothing Draco could do to stop it. No matter how much he didn’t want to, his body was not under his sole command, and he stiffened automatically. _Of course_ this had to happen now. Of bloody course. Draco was a fool, thinking that he could really – _hoping that he could_ – and this was what he deserved, this and nothing else. At first Potter didn’t even notice anything; when Draco didn’t move on his own he gently steered him out of the way, returning only when the pasta was secured. It took another second for him to tell something was wrong. “Draco?”

Fuck, fuck, fucking hell. Hysteria, pure and baffling, tore every single thought in his head to pieces. He could not raise his head no matter how much he wanted to. He could not talk. He could hardly even breathe; his body was at attention, yet every single muscle was forced to relax. He was a puppet on a string. He was nothing. The tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes couldn’t even leak out.

“Draco, what is it? What’s wrong?” Potter’s voice conveyed a heavy amount of concern, but Draco couldn’t move. He only stared at the blurry floor, terrified and so angry with himself. He desperately wished to close his eyes, but he couldn’t do anything without a direct order. “Draco, please. Please. Did I do something wrong?”

The fear in his tone made Draco’s heart crash into his lungs, but he couldn’t move an inch. He wasn’t even shaking – they did meticulous work on him. He couldn’t do _anything_. A soft whimper fought to leave him, but died on his frozen lips. He blinked at the floor, stupid, useless, wrong. “Draco, please.” It wouldn’t work. Potter would never realize how to undo it, and Draco would die here, frozen still, looking at the floor and shattering inside. He would be here forever. “Please. Please tell me.”

That was close enough, and Draco jumped on the veiled command like a bucket of water during a fire. Surely it was more urgent than even that. “My back, you touched – you touched it.”

“I touched your back before and it was fine. What’s different about this?” When Draco wasn’t able to answer, Potter took a step closer. “Draco, tell me what’s different about this.”

“Where you touched, it’s – one of the places where… it’s like an off switch.”

“Off? To switch what off?” a deep sigh when he didn’t answer. “Tell me.”

“Me,” Draco replied, his voice catching. “To switch off _me_.”

“Please tell me what to do, Draco. Tell me how to fix it.”

“You need to touch my face,” Draco whispered. Potter didn’t waste a second before a gentle finger crooked under his chin and raised his head, and Draco used the release to immediately close his eyes. He could not bear the look Potter was surely giving him right now, could not bear having to see it. Just how _pathetic_ he was. How fucking broken…

“Draco,” Potter breathed, and his voice reached a new level of misery. “Can I… do I need to do anything else?”

“No,” Draco quickly took a step back and shook his head. “No, it’s – it’s okay.”

Potter offered a chair, and Draco fell into it without looking at him. It was very evident Potter was bursting with questions unasked, but he remained silent, and Draco appreciated it more than he could ever say. He had no idea what to do with himself now. While the sensation wasn’t at all foreign to him, it’s been such a long time since it last happened – ever since He left. It was _frightening,_ thinking it could happen with Potter. About five minutes passed before either of them moved, and it was Potter suddenly remembering – “Shit, the sauce!“ - and lowering the heat under the pan that was the first sound in the otherwise silent kitchen.

After some fiddling with the stove, Potter sat down in front of him, and now Draco had no choice but to look. He expected to see pity, plain and simple in the green eyes. Perhaps disgust, if he was being honest. Confusion. But what he actually saw was just… just fucking warmth, and Potter’s softest smile, and it took only a heartbeat before the tears he struggled to contain flowed freely down his cheeks. Potter didn’t say anything, just waited for him to catch his breath, and Draco slowly calmed down enough to be angry. “What?” he asked, his fists shaking on the table. “You’re waiting for another demonstration of just how fucked-up I am?”

“No,” Potter said gently, and that was enough to quell the bitter outburst. “I just want to know you’re all right. That’s all I want.”

Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Gods damn it to pieces, Potter. Could you maybe not be a fucking perfect prick for a second? You’re insufferable.” A small chuckle made him groan even louder. “I mean it.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Well, if you’re feeling good enough to throw insults, I take it you’re okay. I’ll just go on and finish making dinner, then?” Draco shrugged, and Potter’s chair scraped as he got to his feet. More rattling and grunting and clanking signified he was busy at work, and Draco took the time to try and master himself.

This was just so fucked-up. No, sorry, correction; _he_ was so fucked-up. Whenever Draco came close to forgetting just how much of a mess he is… well, he remembered now. All in all, it changed very little; Draco knew all along he was a miserable pile of garbage. The only thing different now was that Potter got a firsthand view of it, and knowing better what Draco really was, he was probably mentally packing his bags and getting ready to run for the hills.

Only… Draco closed his eyes, which meant he saw Potter’s smile again. Potter wasn’t angry with him for being weak. He didn’t even demand an explanation or forced him to talk. And when he said all he wanted was to make sure Draco was all right, he looked sincere. He really cared about him. Fuck… Draco sighed and slunk down in his seat. It wasn’t just that. Potter wouldn’t hurt him – not even if he could, not even if he could _so much_. Draco repeated it a couple more times for good measure. Potter wasn’t going to use this against him. He wasn’t going to hurt him, and he wasn’t going to make him leave. Potter who smiled for him… with another sigh he forced himself to his feet and made his unsure way to the stove. This was not the time to fall apart. For now Potter was still here and he didn’t chuck him out.

The cooking was apparently done; Potter was busy plating spaghetti and tossing the salad he cut. Draco cleared his throat. “Can I help with anything?”

“Here, grab this. Ready to eat?” Potter passed over a plate and a handful of cutlery, and Draco returned to the table to set it. They sat down quietly, both avoiding each other's gaze.

“Bon appetite,” Potter murmured before tucking in, and there was only very little for Draco to do but follow his lead. A few minutes went by before he was able to breathe normally again, even if his heart was still a little hyperactive. A few minutes more before he could actually taste the food - the spaghetti was terrific, damn it. Draco looked at Potter and took a deep breath to hopefully steady himself. Potter looked very much the picture of misery, and Draco couldn't stand to leave him in silence much longer. He was a mess all right, but he could carry on a fucking conversation.

“Are you excited to be going back?” he asked politely, and Potter seemed surprised by the sudden question. He managed to swallow his bite semi-gracefully.

“Erm, yeah, I guess.”

“Wow, didn’t realize you were quite so enthusiastic. Dial it down a bit, won’t you? You’ll have the neighbors complaining.”

Potter grinned weakly and shook his head. “All right, you git. Yes, it’ll be good to be out and about again. I mean, you’ve seen how badly I took to being indoors for so long. And seeing everyone again will be great. Ron’s only a couple of days short of sending me a howler, I just know it.”

Draco snickered to his plate. “Can’t handle the separation very well, can he?” and if it was a little rich for him, the separation anxiety king, to say anything in the matter – then Potter didn’t comment on that.

“Neither of us can, really. We’re so used to being joined at the hip. Longest time we spent apart was probably when we were chasing hor- I mean to say, during the war. We had a bit of a row and he split. I was so angry with him, you can’t even imagine. I thought I’d kill him the next time we met.”

Draco shuddered, because he really couldn’t imagine. Potter could get angry? Really angry, angry enough to hurt someone? It was a very disturbing thought. “Obviously you didn’t kill him. He’s still alive.”

“Yeah, no, ended up that the next time I saw him he saved my life, so I kind of forgot to be angry after that. Hermione was ready to rip him to shreds though. Do me a favor and never cross her again, all right? Out of the three of us, she’s probably the scariest one.” Potter’s smile got so bright it blinded him for a moment, and Draco felt his own lips tugging upwards.

“She’s got a mean left hook, I’ll give you that,” he said lightly. It’s been so long since he last thought of that punch, the first one he’d ever gotten. Back then it was a big deal, hit by a girl, hit by a Mudblood… Draco was vaguely ashamed of himself. Not that it mattered, since he wasn’t that boy anymore, but still.

“Ah, yes. Is it okay for me to say it was one of my favorite childhood moments?” Potter laughed, and Draco shook his head, laughing too.

“Go right ahead. I did deserve it, I must admit. Not that I remember why I got that particular one, but… well, there’s not been a blow I _didn’t_ deserve, I’m sure.” Potter tensed immediately, and Draco knew he said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I – it sort of just slipped.”

“Draco…” oh, dear gods, if only he could take back that remark. Potter’s voice was so pained, and he’d already scared the crackers out of him tonight.

“I’m sorry. Please forget that. So, Granger is the scary one, I wholeheartedly agree. Does she terrorize the Ministry quite as much as she did the professors at Hogwarts? Is she making plans on taking over yet?”

Potter didn’t laugh, but he didn’t push the matter either. “I don’t think she's got any plans for anytime soon, no. I guess she’s a little cautious of how… you know, people see the three of us around there. She’s constantly on me to keep my head down, not to encourage any special treatment or whatever. She’s worried they’re going to make me Head Auror or something before I’m ready, because everyone still sees me as the Golden Boy.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “You have nothing to worry about, Potter. You’re special enough, yes, but no one will make you Head Auror before you’re thirty-four.”

“Why’s that?” Potter’s curiosity took over for the hurt in his voice.

“Well, you won’t be considered fully matured until then. I’m sure you know that.” His face made it clear he didn’t. “Er, because of the… have you really never heard of it before? Thirty-four being the age in which one unlocks their full magical potential?”

“That is the biggest pile of rubbish I’ve ever heard. _Unlock full magical potential?_ What nonsense.”

“It’s just tradition,” Draco shrugged. “It probably stems from it being one of the magical numbers.”

“Magical numbers?” Potter asked, sounding amused.

“Yes, the magical – you know how some numbers are important, have some magical attributes to them. Seven, twelve, twenty-eight – and, yes, thirty-four as well, they all have significance. When it comes to ages too, but not only there. It comes to light in many different ways.”

The concept seemed to baffle Potter. “All right, I know that seven is… has a meaning, or whatever. What meaning does twelve have?”

Draco frowned. “In traditional society, should a wizard or witch fail to show any sign of magic by the age of twelve, they are considered to be Squibs. Of course, nowadays we know that it’s not always the case – some wizards take longer than others. It’s only the traditional definition. And, well, there are other examples – like the twelve uses of dragon’s blood.”

“Right. And what about twenty-eight?”

“Oh, there’s loads of them too. The Sacred twenty-eight, for instance. And the rebirth cycle of a phoenix, which takes twenty-eight days.”

“And then, thirty-four… is when a wizard unlocks his full potential.”

“Yes, according to the old lore. You can guess it doesn’t mean much – naturally witches and wizards continue to learn throughout their entire lives, thereby taking further their abilities and so called ‘potential’. But this sort of thing still goes strong in places like the Ministry. Did you ever ask yourself why no one can be granted a seat in the Wizengamot before they turn thirty-four?”

“I can honestly say I never did. I didn’t even know that was a thing.” Potter gave a low whistle. “Wizards have some messed-up rules, let me tell you.”

“Was that why you took every chance you had to break them?” Draco asked in a smirk. Potter looked affronted for a second, and then gave a rolling laugh.

“Pretty much, yeah, I suppose. Also I kind of just hate rules. Don’t you?”

The gasp was unintentional, and so was his response. “Gods, no. I love rules. Rules are what keeps me afloat.” It felt a little like he’s quoting someone, but he didn’t really know who.

“That’s… all right,” Potter said quietly. Then after a moment, “No, I’m sorry, but that was actually an odd thing to say.”

“I’m an odd person, Potter. Thought you would have figured that out by now.”

Potter didn’t take his peace-offering. “Draco, about what’s happened earlier. We don’t have to talk about it, but – “

“Oh, hell, I knew you won't let it go. I knew it.” Draco closed his eyes and wished to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

“No, wait, let me finish. You really don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, okay? There’s just one thing I have to know. You said that touching your back – that specific spot on your back – activated it, or something like that?” Draco didn’t know if he’s strong enough to speak, so he just nodded. “All right. So I just need to know if there’s any more – spots like that. I need to know I won’t do anything like that by accident. If you will ever want me to touch you again, that is.”

His weak, pained laughter was what spurred Draco into talking. “There are some – places – well, erm, not exactly like that. The center of my lower back is the only place that can be… triggered like that. You’d have to mean it to activate any of the other commands, it wouldn’t happen spontaneously.”

“Commands?” Potter asked, miserable, and Draco complied.

“I told you. About the… training they put me through. How Gr- Alan, that guard, how he made me react to certain things physically. This was one of them, the first one they taught me. It’s… I’ve not been able to… I can’t get rid of it.”

The only reason Draco was able to say all of that was the resolute way in which he did not look at Potter. Looking at him now was a mistake. It cut his heart into tiny little pieces and then stomped them under a heavy metal boot. “Fuck,” was Potter’s reply, two minutes into the deafening silence. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said mechanically. Potter shook his head.

“You’ve got nothing to – Draco, that’s sick. They _trained_ you to – to shut off if someone touches you like that? It’s sick.”

“It’s a switch,” Draco tried to explain. It was terribly difficult to talk about, but he knew Potter must think he’s a total freak, and the need to be understood was overwhelming. “An off switch for when I was getting mouthy or disrespectful or – or bad. This way I’d be compelled to just… be there, and, well, I wouldn’t fight. I’d listen to them, and then – he said that if I listened, I won’t get punished. That if I was good I wouldn’t be punished so much.” He was rather unsuccessful in his explanation, judging by Potter’s horrified expression.

“Draco…”

“But he lied,” he continued for some inexplicable reason, when Potter couldn’t seem to find any words. “He lied about that. I listened, and they still – they didn’t stop. But it was too late by then, I’d already… I can’t get rid of it. I tried when I was on parole, but there was nothing I could do. It’s instilled in me now.”

“Bloody hell. I’m – Draco, I’m so sorry. If only I’d known before, if I’d asked, I could have avoided it. I’m so sorry.”

Draco was a little confused. He upset Potter, and Potter was asking for _his_ forgiveness? “No, I’m sorry. I said I was sorry first.” It may have been a childish reaction, but Draco never claimed to be much of an adult.

“Okay, so let’s say we’re both sorry. It’s just – Draco, it’s so terrible. So, so terrible. Thinking you’d had to go through it… I can’t…” he shook his head, and Draco wished there was something he could do for him, because Potter’s pain was in some ways harder to take than his own. Especially when he was the one causing it.

“It’s all right. He can’t hurt me now, remember? He can’t ever hurt me again.”

Potter nodded, only slightly comforted. “Thank god, I guess. Though I kind of wish he was still alive, just a little. Just so I could… show him what I thought of him.” There it was again, the disturbing thought of Potter angry enough to hurt someone, and this time it came with a glint in the green eyes. Although Draco appreciated the sentiment, this was as far from what he wanted as could be.

“No, it’s for the best, really. Just as long as – now you know. About my back, I mean. About the spot that – so you could avoid touching it, and that would be it. It’d be over.” At least for as long as He’s away.

“There must be a way to break it,” Potter shook his head. “I know you said you tried, but if you were trained into it, maybe you could be trained out of it, too. I don’t know if they used any type of magic for it, or just severe psychological abuse, but – will it be okay if I looked into it, Draco? Only with your permission. I won’t talk to anyone about you or what’s happened, I promise. Just look into conditioning and stuff like that.”

Draco shrugged. “If it would make you feel better, why not.” Of course, he knew that it would be futile, but it took him a while to give up. Maybe Potter needed some time, too.

“That man.”

“Alan?”

“Yes, him. How long did he work in Azkaban before you were put there?” Potter’s face was a blank sheet, but Draco could see something moving behind his eyes, and he didn’t fall for it.

“Please don’t, Potter. Please don’t go investigating him.”

“No, I won’t, nothing like that. I just want to know.”

Draco drew a deep breath. “I don’t really know how long he worked there before I was sentenced. He never said, and no one spoke about that. The only thing they said was how much he’d changed after the breakout.”

“Changed? Changed how?”

For a long moment he could only brave a shrug. “I don’t really know. Some of the guards said he went crazy, that something happened to him that night. There were rumors he met the Dark Lord himself, you know. I didn’t think it was that - I used to think it was just the sting of losing his perfect status. Many of them stopped respecting him after so many people in his charge escaped, and I don’t think he really recovered from that. Though I won’t say he wasn’t mental, because he certainly was. Absolutely mental. The things he…” Draco stopped abruptly when his voice broke. Breathing became problematic once more.

“You know,” Potter said musingly, “Dumbledore used to say that fear of the name only increased the fear of the thing itself.”

“What?” Draco asked, bewildered.

“Just the way you never say his name out loud. Or your ex’s, or Voldemort’s, for that matter. But with this Alan bloke – I’m afraid that by not saying his name to me, because you’re scared I’d go looking for him or something, that you’re actually making it worse for yourself. Not that I’m saying you have to tell me his name, just… I don’t want you to give him any more power. So I promise that if you ever did tell me, I won’t do anything about it. I swear to you.”

Draco looked at the way he crossed his heart and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not that he didn’t trust Potter, just that… all right, fine, he didn’t trust him enough for it. Was it really all that mad, though? Potter broke his promises at least once a week. Draco trusted him with his life, but he could not trust him with this information.

“Maybe one day,” he said when he realized Potter was waiting for an answer. “Is that all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Potter smiled softly. “Anything you want.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Draco admitted after a long moment. “About the… I should have told you. It wasn’t fair for me to let you find out like that. I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding?” Potter asked in a painful little croak. “Please, Draco, please don’t say things like that to me, don’t apologize. I know I said you can tell me whatever you want, but… for you to take responsibility over the messed-up shit they’ve done, to hear you apologizing for it, it’s a little beyond me to bear. It wasn’t your fault, and you have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. Okay?”

It couldn’t have been further away from the truth, but Potter’s tone did have its effects on Draco, who could only nod. “Okay.” Then, because Potter’s bloody smile made his blood hot and his head reckless, he added, “And I will, by the way.”

“Will what?”

“Will want you to touch me again. If you don’t regret kissing me – “

He seemed to come back to his senses with a deviously soft smile. “Regret it? Seriously? It was the best moment of my life.”

Draco did roll his eyes now. Potter and his tendency for dramatics. “I’m sure it wasn’t the _best_ moment of your life.”

“No, no, I’m pretty certain it was. I mean, I don’t know for sure, though. Might have to… might have to do it again for me to be able to say.” Potter’s smile softened even further, the bloody _bastard_ , and Draco gave out.

“Worst pick up line I’ve heard, I believe… but I do think we might be able to arrange that.”

Potter’s smile was glowing. “You’re the best, Draco.”

“You’re an arse.”

“Yep, that too is true. I do have an arse.”

And it was fucking _adorable_.

The evening sort of fizzled out after that, but it wasn’t all that bad. Potter washed the dishes by hand (and refused to let Draco lift a finger, the annoying git), then made them tea which they drank while chatting about nothing in particular. Both of them were pretty exhausted, perhaps more mentally than physically so, and it didn’t take long before Potter suggested they retreated back upstairs. Twenty minutes later, clad in Potter’s pajamas and teeth brushed, Draco sat down on his mattress and looked at the other man doing the same on his.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked, because he needed to say something, and he had no better ideas. Potter shrugged.

“Not really. It’s been my job for a while now.”

“No, I know that. Just… with everything that’s going on, I thought it might be a little different.”

Potter bit his lower lip. “To tell you the truth, I’m not, like, a hundred percent invested in it. I mean yes, I want to catch the sons of bitches as soon as can be, but I’m not – er – as obsessed about it as I was before.”

“Oh? How come?” Draco quirked an eyebrow at Potter’s sudden blush.

“It’s – er, nothing really. Just with all of the… well, the stuff you’d said. About how I need to let things go. And, erm, more generally speaking, there’s – I guess that I worry about you much more than I do about the wizarding world.”

“You worry about me?” he wished it came out as anything but a throaty whisper, but there you have it.

“Of course I do. All the time. You’re practically all I think about now.”

There was nothing he could say to that for a while, because he forgot what English was. “You…” Draco tried, and again after another minute, “That’s not true, though. You were desperate to go back, you said so yourself.”

“I’m not saying I’m not still committed to my job, to doing the right thing. But it’s not like you’re not a part of it too. I want to make it safe for you as well.”

“Merlin, you’re such a prat,” Draco groaned and shook his head. Then, because it didn’t come close to being enough, he got up and threw himself on Potter’s bed so he was sitting beside him. “Such a huge fucking prat.”

“I know,” Potter chuckled, and his hand twitched like he was aching to place it on Draco, but he didn’t move. “I just want you to feel safe.”

The _absolute arse_. Draco was this close to smacking him. Instead he grabbed Potter’s twitchy hand and gave it a brief kiss. “I do. Feel safe. With you. You fucking insufferable twit.”

“Can I kiss you?” Potter asked sheepishly. Draco wanted to give him the entire world, but all he could offer was his lips, crashing hot and heavy on Potter’s unsuspecting face. He took it well, though, and within a second he returned the kiss, panting slightly. It must have been torture for him, but Potter didn’t move an inch, just stayed right where he was. Draco wanted him so bad he could die with it right here and now. He bit Potter’s lower lip gently – gods, to have _anything_ of him, to be even nearer – and gave him all in this relatively mild kiss, hoping Potter understands what he means. Some sticky, heavy moments later they detached, and the smile on Potter’s face was a fucking sin. Draco had to shake his head several times to recover.

“Just take care tomorrow, all right? Be extra careful. I won’t forgive you if you go and get yourself killed.”

Potter chuckled. “No, I promise. If I die you have every right to kill me.” He gasped when Draco pecked his lips softly before leaning back and getting up.

“Good night, Potter,” Draco said quietly and returned to his own bed. Potter mumbled something in return, presumably some sort of good night, and Draco was actually smiling as he settled into the sheets. So he was broken and fucked-up beyond repair, so what. Potter was still there and Potter still, somehow, miraculously, wanted him. It was frightening, and too good to be true, and it would hurt so much when it’s taken away from him – and yet. Even if he had to spend all day tomorrow on his own. Picturing Potter’s delighted look of surprise when he kissed him, Draco was able to maintain his smile. Surely there were worse things than this in the world.


	21. Always Moving Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day, everyone! Today's chapter may not be the textbook definition of romance, nor was it really meant to be, and yet... love comes in many different forms, right? And, umm, more gushy stuff like that.  
> Oh, and it's extremely long, because I love you all so much.

“And if you need anything – anything, Draco – you remember how to call me?”

“Yes, Potter.”

“And you have the Polyjuice on you in case someone Floos in?”

“Yes, Potter.”

“And you know Kreacher is on alert, so if for some reason I’m not available – “

“Yes, Potter. I know.” Draco released a long sigh, feeling his patience wearing. It’s been five minutes of this already. It was getting slightly ridiculous. 

“Your phone’s fully charged? Let me see.”

“Heavens – it’s charged, Potter. Will you just go already?” Draco sent an incredulous look towards the impressive figure in front of him. Potter was freshly shaven, standing tall in his official uniform and looking – how to put it delicately – fucking _hot_. It made Draco feel this tingly, warm sensation in his insides that was not entirely unfamiliar and very much distressing. Before he could start thinking too much about it he leaned forward and gave Potter a peck on his cheek. “I will be fine. Go save the world, you bloody git. I will stay right here, waiting for you to return and show me how you _didn’t_ get in trouble for a change.”

Potter smiled, but he still looked very worried. His forehead was practically split in two. “I don’t know, Draco. I… are you sure this is how you want to do it? I could take you with me to the office, Polyjuiced. You can sit with Brookes, he’s very nice and not all that bright – “

“No,” Draco shuddered, goosebumps rising all over his body. “I have no wish to spend the day in an office full of Aurors. Death by heart attack isn’t the worst way to go, possibly, but nothing I’d like to try out anytime soon.”

“All right. But… hmm. Maybe I can wait one more day. I could firecall Cap and tell him that – “

“Potter, _go_. It’s not going to make any difference, you going today or tomorrow. I am safe here, aren’t I?”

Potter grimaced into nodding. “Yeah, you are.”

“Right. Then you have nothing to worry about. If someone does get through the Floo security measures you’ve installed, I have the flask right here. Even if they see me, no one is going to suspect Barny Weasley, and if it happens to be Weasley that comes in – assuming he’s clever enough to suspect anything – “ his snark had the desired effect, making Potter’s face look less perturbed – “then I’ll just tell him I’m your boyfriend. He’ll be way too flustered to ask anything else. We are all good, Potter.”

Saying the word ‘boyfriend’ made Potter perk up even more. “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” Draco confessed and patted him carefully on the arm. “But that doesn’t mean much. I haven’t been sure about anything since I was fifteen and realized baby pink wasn’t my color.”

Potter laughed, and Draco could relax a little from his wound-up state. “Rubbish. Have you seen yourself? You’d look good in anything.” He took a few successive short breaths. “All right. I’m leaving, then. You got everything you need? Phone’s at the ready? Remember which keys to press to get me?”

“I swear to all the gods, if you ask me that one more time – “

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you’re a wizard at Muggle technology now.” The soft smile that played on his lips was enough to send a not-unpleasant shiver down Draco’s spine.

“Yes, you’ve made an excessive amount of technology-related puns already. Now will you please just…?” Draco gestured towards the fireplace. The guard surrounding it was Potter’s newest purchase, admitting entrance only to those whose magical signature has been pre-approved – currently standing at one Harry Potter. At the moment, said Potter was facing the fire with a look of total unease.

“Anything you need, Draco. I’m only a phone call away. I’ll keep mine on me at all times.”

“Merlin almighty, I can’t say it again – “

“Fine, yes, sorry. See you in a few hours then. Do try not to wreck the house.”

“I will make no such haste promises.” Draco tilted his head to the side and gave Potter’s tight form another look. It made him feel fifteen again. “Be safe out there.”

With a swoosh of green flame and a tentative smile, Potter was gone and Draco was left in the sitting room all by himself.

He wasn’t proud of it, but it didn’t take much longer than two minutes before he bolted upstairs and shut himself in Potter’s bedroom, shaking slightly. Faking poise in front of Potter was one thing, but being left to his own devices – and especially in such a trying time in his own head – was a gateway straight to disaster. Though definitely better than being surrounded by suspicious Aurors, being alone was… well. Not one of Draco’s favorite pastimes. He heard the beginning of rumbling in the distance, and had no idea if it’s coming from outside the window or his own exhausted mind. It’s been less than ten minutes and already he was showing signs of unraveling.

The thing was, while the past two weeks were difficult, there was always one thing there to pull him out of his head: Potter. Potter was there to smile at him, taunt (whether on purpose or just by being annoyingly sweet), ask pointless questions, or simply be there for Draco to ogle. And now Draco had nothing, zero distractions. Kreacher returned to Hogwarts several days ago, and while the elf wasn’t exactly good company – it took five consecutive minutes in his presence to get why Potter dubbed him _off his rocker_ – he was still better than none. None was… tricky. None was complicated. None meant Draco was alone with the iron curtain, and that was a bit of a problem nowadays.

See, back in the merry days of yore when everything was _normal_ , the curtain had one job only; keeping Azkaban away. It worked seamlessly. Besides, He was there, and He was nothing if not a terrific distraction. With Him around, it was hard to even hear himself think, let alone torment himself mentally. And so life was pretty much easy. Or maybe not easy, but smooth. Perhaps not smooth as much as not _like this_ , like getting hit repeatedly on the head by a rancid troll’s club. It was just so difficult now, because the iron curtain had to stretch to accommodate so much more. It had to make room for Him, and He took up a _lot_ of space.

It was only because thinking of Him meant certain and most likely terrible death, and Draco just decided recently he didn’t want to die. And so he did the only reasonable thing and stuffed Him deep under the coverage of the curtain, from under which He emerged only a couple dozen times a day and not, say, every single minute. It was only natural for the curtain to struggle to keep in something so big. Something so… prominent. Something that – it was understandable, was all he was saying. Draco wasn’t surprised to see holes and tears in the formerly spotless divide. He was terrified, though, because he was sensible, at least most of the time. Absolutely terrified.

But thinking about it wasn’t helping, so Draco took to pacing instead. Having spent the majority of the past fortnight not on his knees, Draco’s abused joints were in much better shape, and he hardly even limped. That’s a good thing, right? Here was something he could think about. Improvement. The path to… something decent or other. After all he was pretty much Potter’s now (because _Potter wants you_ , remember, Draco?) and that meant – something. It meant something. He was sure of it. Just what exactly, he did not know.

Thinking of Potter was somewhat grounding and definitely the way to go, so Draco sat himself sternly on his mattress and felt the soft fabric of the bedsheets Potter bought for him. Ordered from a Muggle department store, he said, which apparently was something you could do without having to go yourself. Potter also purchased some clothes that were closer to Draco’s size (though not exactly it – he hated showing his bony, disgusting wrists, and all the shirt sleeves were too short. Potter said they looked lovely, but honestly, that goon had no taste. Look at who he chose to spend time with, after all). He got him so many things: dozens of shirts and jumpers, five pairs of jeans, far too many boxer shorts, and at least ten different fluffy pajamas, soft enough to cry. Draco felt terrible about all the money he wasted on him, which Potter simply waved it off as a _delight_. He’d never understand that man. Anyway, feeling Potter in the unnecessary things he bought, Draco was able to calm down a little. These were things, physical, tangible things that held a bit of Potter’s essence. Potter’s big, hero, calming essence. Yes. That was what he needed. Slowly he got up, brushing his hand against Potter’s bed poster. Maybe if he just kept close to the things that represented Potter, he could stop himself from going crazy. Draco walked around the room, always keeping his hand on something; the dresser, the nightstand, the wardrobe, Potter’s jeans he folded and put on the chair, the desk, the paper – the paper? Why did Potter keep a copy of the Prophet from four days ago?

Draco stared at it for a second, bewildered, before a deep flush blossomed on his cheeks. Four days ago, reading the paper… that was when they kissed, wasn't it? Perhaps Potter kept it as some sort of memento. The thought was sweet enough to make him both gag and hold the paper to his chest a little pathetically. Bloody hell, that Potter was sneaky. How can he make Draco’s heart do this silly sort of dance when he wasn’t even around? Draco looked down fondly, running his fingers over the page, thinking of Potter, only to be attacked. Personally attacked. By none other than Pansy Parkinson’s glare.

Merlin and Morgana, this could not have come at a worse time – but he’d already made eye contact, and there was nothing for Draco to do now but lay the paper on the desk and stare right at his best friend’s face. His hardly-recognizable best friend's face. Not that she really looked all that different – same nose, same cheekbones, same pout. But there was something… her eyes were perhaps harsher; Pansy mastered bitch-face all the way back in school, but this was something else. She looked hardened, like life tried to teach her a lesson, then deserted the attempt for a well-aimed kick in the ovaries. To the untrained eye she might look fine, but Draco knew her well enough to say she looked sad, and it tore his heart to pieces. Why was his Pansy sad? Was she not just promoted to some big-shot Ministry position? Did she not have a good life?

Draco thought about her for all of ten seconds before the unwanted, deeply-suppressed memory barged in. Fucking hell, this was a disaster; not even thirty minutes on his own, and he resorted to _this?_ But seeing Pansy’s face like that, unprompted, was a punch straight to the face, and the memory could not be fought. Draco sighed and closed his eyes, but even Potter’s smile wavered. He’d done so well not to think about her recently. He used to do it a lot back in the day, and now… not so much anymore. He didn’t even have his single pansy by the till to remember by. It was funny (not in a ha-ha way, gods, far from it), but Draco really hadn’t given her much thought since the whole thing with Potter started. Well, maybe that made some sense - he was so busy worrying about the _next time_ and the impossibility thereof, that he forgot to think about the _last time_. Because it was Pansy who saw him last, before Potter came to the shop that fateful day. Pansy was the last person to see him alive, the last one who knew him at least. And she nearly had to pay for it with her own life.

It was an unusually sunny day, he remembered. They’d just come back to London a couple of weeks prior, and Draco was beside himself with worry. He could not fathom why they had to return to the place where they would most likely be found. Why risk it? They were both at stake here; Draco was reminded of the dangers every single night. He did not understand it at all, and that made him skittish. It made him hysterical. So hysterical, in fact, he didn’t leave Him much choice; for two weeks straight He took Draco everywhere, holding his hand firmly. Which helped, a little, he supposed. Day by day it did get a little easier to bear. Until that one day, unusually sunny, when he’d actually been able to notice things like how the light refracts off shop windows. And how it lights dark-brown hair till it looks almost auburn. And how that color was familiar, and actually, that frame was familiar, and actually, oh fuck, oh fuck, it _was_ familiar, because this time he wasn’t imagining it. And that’s how he spotted Pansy.

Everything was happening too fast, or maybe in slow-motion; he had absolutely no idea what’s going on. It took Him noticing and quickly deducing what had happened before the feeling of apparition overwhelmed him (Draco didn’t really do much side-along since – well), and suddenly there was no more sunshine as they were back in the flat, only this time Pansy was with them. Perhaps there was an exchange of words – maybe even a few screams – Draco couldn’t have guessed. He was far too preoccupied with being stunned senseless. So many things raced through his head; shock, relief, joy, fear, grief, love -

Then he remembered.

It had been explained to him, after all, many times. Enough times to stick. _If you speak to anyone, anyone at all, it could lead them back to us. We would both end up in prison, or worse. Therefore, anyone you speak to – anyone who recognizes you – must be taken care of. Permanently._

Even the speed of light wasn’t fast enough; Draco tore the space of the room, nearly face-planting on the floor in his hurry, and it took less than a millisecond before he put himself between His raised wand and petrified Pansy (hopefully not by a spell, but who the hell had time to check). _He_ gave him a very serious, displeased look, one that would have sent him running for cover any other day of the week, but Draco stood his ground. And he begged.

Over the years, Draco perfected begging into an art form. After all, he spent two whole years begging practically non-stop, then another year and a half begging himself to forget. But right there in the flat, with Pansy behind his back and His wand at the ready, Draco really outdid himself. It _hurt_ , he begged so hard. There were tears and snot and whimpering involved, and a lot more _please_ than he could ever hope to imagine. _Please_ , he implored, _please, please just obliviate her. Please._ It took about two minutes, but it lasted for fucking ever; Draco was lost in the brown eyes, baring his soul, surrendering without refrain. _Please_. He couldn’t breathe. _Please_. He couldn’t think. _Please_. He would do anything. _Please_. 

Somehow, _somehow_ , it worked, and He agreed to obliviate her and spare her life – this time. And it very nearly didn’t end that way. Draco knew with every inch of him that it was close, too close to being horrifically bad. Pansy was _this_ close to dying that day, and all because she walked on that street at that time. She almost died. Because of _him_. And he knew, he knew that next time He won’t hesitate. Next time no amount of _please_ would be enough. Next time…

Next time ended up being Potter, actually, though others did come close. Potter was the only one who was quick enough to recognize him. Thinking about it now, it was pretty damn lucky it was him - Potter, the savior, untouchable. Someone He couldn’t do anything to. That’s why they had to go about it this way, with Draco getting close to him so he could – hypothetically – satisfy his curiosity and make him leave. _He_ was never going to hurt him, wouldn’t have dared to try. Draco may have entertained the concern for a moment there, but only because he was stupid, and, well, He did have that glint in His eyes sometimes. Still, Potter was never in any real danger. Because no one could hurt Potter, no one could – attack him –

Draco found himself on the floor without really knowing how he got there. A sharp pain in his ribs told him he met the chair on his way down, but panic fought for most of his attention and won. _What if He was the one who attacked Potter_?

If seeing Pansy was a punch to the face, this thought was a hot poker right through the eye. For the longest time Draco couldn’t even tell what was going on in his mind. Such a mixture of emotions was incredibly hard to follow; there was confusion there, a whole bunch of it; incredulity in its most basic form; fear, soul-gnawing fear; some anger too, actually, as of yet not directed at anything specific. Probably at himself, though. _Was he putting Potter in danger all this time?_ Could it be that Draco’s tendencies of compartmentalization and denial exposed Potter to risk? Could he have been the reason why he nearly – that he was so severely –

But no, no, it couldn’t be. There were ample reasons why it was simply impossible. It didn’t make sense on any level; if He wanted to kill Potter, He would have made his move long ago. Instead of leaving and changing everything, He’d have just got rid of him then and there. The fact He didn’t proves it wasn’t Him, right? Moreover, if it really was Him who attacked Potter, there was no way he'd still be alive – He was just that strong a wizard. Far too strong to _fail_. Potter would have had no chance.

Besides, He wasn’t even back yet. It would be very unlike Him not to take Draco back as soon as He'd return. No, not just unlike Him - out of the question. If getting rid of Potter was the only problem, there was no way He wouldn’t at least _talk_ to him. Even if only to determine the situation, only just to use him. Not to mention He’d probably want Draco by His side – undoubtedly will, for one reason at least. Perhaps Draco’s actions were unpardonable, enough to drive Him away... but not before he was punished for them, right? _He_ would never give up a truly-deserved punishment. And it’s not like He was one to wait out His anger so well.

No, it couldn’t have been Him. After all, Draco knew Him well enough. If He wanted Potter dead, Potter would have been dead, and so it ruled Him out. Relief, sweet and heavy, shot down every single blood vessel in him, and Draco sat there on the floor seeped in it. He wasn’t the reason Potter was hurt, and that was pretty damn crucial. If he had been – but no, there’s no reason to go there, because he’s _not_. End of story. All right. Breathing was made possible once more, and Draco took in the air gratefully. Although someone was definitely still out there meaning Potter harm, at least it wasn’t Him. That was as optimistic a thought as he allowed himself to have.

Draco would have probably stayed on the floor much longer if he hadn’t seen the note. It took some time – perhaps an hour, perhaps more – but in the end he did let his eyes wander around the room, and right there on his pillow he saw a piece of parchment he did not notice before. Curiosity (plus the painful need to think of _absolutely anything else_ ) got him smoothly to his feet, and he picked up the strange note in slightly-trembling fingers. It was Potter’s messy handwriting, and recognizing it made Draco feel instantly warmer.

 _Been to the library today?_ The note asked, and Draco frowned.

Did Potter know he was going to end back up here? Did he expect Draco to have some sort of a panic attack, to take refuge in his bedroom? And when did he even have the time to do this? He blinked at the note a couple of times. Potter barely had five minutes to himself this morning, and this is what he did? Put a note on Draco’s pillow telling him – telling him what exactly? The library? Was Potter suggesting he goes to the library?

Oh well. Obedient to the end, Draco shrugged and picked himself up mentally. Appealing as the thought of barricading himself in Potter’s bedroom was, the library wasn’t such a bad idea. Draco only glimpsed at it until now, but if he looked a little closer he was sure to find something to enjoy. And if the term _enjoy_ was a bit of a stretch, then at least something to distract him, which was certainly good enough. Besides, Potter wanted this… Draco found himself on the stairs before he actually made any decision.

Then to the library as quickly as he could, because he didn’t like this old, dark, creepy house one bit. This house that was Potter’s but still very much wasn’t. Feeling a chill run down his back, Draco shook himself and looked around. It was a rather small library compared to the one in the Manor, but impressive nevertheless. Rows upon rows of wooden shelves stacked with leather-bound books, a small sitting area with a familiar-looking sofa and coffee table, and the window had a nice-ish view to the –

Draco’s gaze zoomed back to the sitting area. The sofa and the table looked familiar because they really _were_ familiar; an exact copy of the ones in the abandoned flat. A copy, Draco knew, and not the originals – the not-so-obvious spots of blood were missing from the places where he knew they should be. Draco gulped, stunned, and the realization took even longer to sink in. Potter transformed the furniture here to resemble that in the flat, so Draco would feel more at home.

What. The actual. Fuck.

He was drawn to the sitting area automatically, heart speeding up exponentially fast, gratitude mixed with a shattering feeling of grief beating alongside it in his chest. Potter was far, far, far too much. He even did the carpet – the pattern on it was slightly different, but then again, Potter must have done this from memory, and the man did not have an eye for details. And his magic was so weak, it must have taken him ages to do all this. Merlin, what – what – just what? Draco didn’t notice the stack of books on the coffee table until about ten minutes later, when he could think again.

“What the – “ he actually spoke out loud, so deep into bewilderment he just couldn’t keep it in anymore. Five tomes and on top of them another note. Draco’s fingers _really_ trembled picking that one up. 

_Just some boring books you might like._

He sank on the sofa and rubbed his eyes several times, brushing the tears off with the back of his hand. This was beyond incredible. It was… there were no words in any language that could sum it up sufficiently, and Draco didn’t even think that was an exaggeration. If Potter were here right now Draco would have literally killed him with kisses. _Killed_ him. It must have been about midday before he was able to pick up the first book – _An Exploration of Potions from Medieval Times to Modern Day_ – and actually divine meaning from its title. A potions book. Potter found him a potions book. He must have looked through the hundreds of books in this room to find something he thought might entertain Draco. Potter took the time to do something to make Draco feel less alone.

He would have _killed_ him. Seriously. Maybe it was better if Potter stayed away tonight, safer for him. But then again, Draco would probably die if that happens, so maybe not.

A part of him was annoyed with himself for developing such a – fixation on Potter, so intense, so fast, so certainly unhealthy. But the other part pointed at the note and asked, _well? What else could I fucking do? have you **seen** this?_ Which was a fair point, too. This was out of Draco’s hands. He would stay and be Potter’s for as long as the sodding idiot allows him, for as long as he can. How could he not? What on earth could he do against _this_?

It was impossible. Harry was just so –

Wait, _who?_ Draco frowned and shook his head. He must have meant _Master Harry,_ like he jokingly said sometimes in his head. It’s not like he could really, actually call him – he was Potter, just Potter. Always Potter, which on its own was already too much. He couldn’t very well be _Harry_ now. Fuck’s sake, Draco. Show even an inkling of self-preservation. At least _pretend_ like you care how much you’re hurting yourself.

More times passed. Draco was too jittery to actually read, so he flicked through the pages without really paying attention. Then he noticed the edge of another note (another note? His heart wouldn’t be able to take it. It just wouldn’t) sticking out and carefully extracted it from about the middle of the book.

_Have you eaten anything yet?_

Hell, it was getting worse by the minute. A little bit of consideration, a touch of affection was a lot to bear. But this amount – Draco couldn’t possibly believe it if he tried. To imagine Potter wanted him was hard enough, and even that was only achievable by obsessive repetition. But to think that he cared _this much?_ That Draco could not afford. He had to be careful now, had to rein himself in, him and his wild imagination. The only thing waiting for him down this path was heartbreak and probably immeasurable pain. Draco did not need more pain. He did not want more pain. And since he strictly forbade himself from thinking about what he _deserved_ , the discussion ended there. Draco had to proceed with caution and not get too wrapped up in whatever it was Potter was trying to lure him into. Still, though, and because he really couldn’t help himself, he got up and went to the kitchen, dreading what he’ll find there. Dreading – and with good reason too, for on the counter was a box of eclairs (damn it, damn it, _damn it_ ) and another note.

_These are for desert – check the fridge first. I mean, if you want to._

He was doomed.

Draco spent another hour or two just staring at the note before he was able to comply. In the fridge waited a bag from their favorite Indian restaurant – when the hell did Potter have the time to buy all this? They spent almost every minute together – and another note reminding him how to use the micronwave. Or whatever it was called; Potter’s scrambled handwriting took a lot of guesswork to figure out. Draco spent another hour just staring at the bag, but longing and fear and anger (anger? Why anger? Who was he angry with, beside the usual suspect?) filled his stomach too much and in the end he just stole an eclair from the box and sat himself down at the kitchen table, waiting for the end of days.

The end did not arrive just yet. Potter, though, said he’d be back at five, and damn if he wasn’t there bang on the minute. Draco’s eyes were fixed to the clock on the wall and at five precisely he heard the crackle of fire, followed by the soft call of his name. He shot to his feet and _ran_ to the sitting room – actual running, bad knees can fuck themselves – only stopping inches from Potter’s nose. Then, because his heart did not allow for anything else, he simply threw himself into Potter’s arms, effectively pushing him back into the fire where the edge of his robe started to smoke. Potter chuckled, lifted Draco slightly in the air and took a careful step away from the flames. He then proceeded to crush him, sighing in relief or contentment or whatever else, and with the lack of the ability to breathe came the first semblance of calm Draco had all day.

At first he leaned into Potter in an awkward angle, pushing his lower back out as he was used to, but it was unnecessary. Potter’s hand remained very surely on the center of his back and Draco had every confidence he was aware of the danger. His confidence may have been misguided, but also inevitable. Potter wouldn’t hurt him, he knew that for sure. Not on purpose, and not if he could avoid it.

After a while they both calmed down enough to let each other go, and if Draco wasn’t very much mistaken, there was a tear glinting on Potter’s cheek when they broke off the embrace. He did have a tendency to cry when they hugged, which would have been weird if it wasn’t all Draco wanted to do now, too. Though it could have been his imagination, for a second afterwards Potter was already beaming, and the world fell back into place.

“Hey there. Sorry if I was a little – I couldn’t really stop myself, the day just wouldn’t end. I couldn’t… couldn’t wait to get back.”

Draco hated him more than he hated anything in the whole wide world, ever. Hated him so, so, so bad, he thought he might die of it. He wanted to kill him with kisses, as one is wont to do when hating so fucking much. And if what he felt at the moment wasn’t precisely hate then too bad, because that’s the only name he could give it – an emotion of _that_ enormity – without breaking apart.

“I – “ he tried, then shook his head, then tried again, then shook again. Potter gave him a concerned look.

“You alright?”

“Mm-hm.”

Potter pursed his lips. “Draco?”

“Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “Not such a good day today?”

“It was…” Draco tried, so help him all the gods. He really tried, but words were elusive, and his mind was blank with hate and need. He wanted to burrow so deeply into Potter that he could get inside him.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I thought – I wanted to call you a million times, but I didn’t want to pressure you. I thought the notes would be – I’m sorry, that was such a stupid idea.”

“The notes were lovely,” Draco said, horrified to hear his voice so patchy.

“Then was it something else?”

Draco shook his head. Unless he counts himself as something else, which he didn’t really. “No, it was… it was fine, really. Thanks for the books and the food and the sofa and – thanks, Potter. It was extremely kind.” _Way, way too kind._

“It was nothing. I wanted to… make sure you were taking care of yourself, but now that I’m thinking about it, I was probably just being bossy again. I didn’t mean to – “

Draco shocked them both by raising his hand and placing a finger on Potter’s warm, soft lips. “It was perfect. You are perfect.” _Way, way too perfect_. “Thank you.”

Potter may have been unable to speak, because he swallowed in a loud sort of way. “You’re welcome.”

And Draco kissed him, because he was only human, and there was only so much he could do.

The kiss was warm and sloppy and comforting, and so was the rest of the evening. Potter was unusually quiet, which would have been concerning if he didn’t have that silly grin of his splashed all over his face. He stayed very close, always at Draco’s fingertips, and though they didn’t touch at all afterwards it was still something. They said nothing as they ate the untouched Indian lunch and drank pumpkin juice and stared into each other’s eyes, and Draco wanted to die, but only just a little. No, wait, that wasn’t true. He didn’t want to die at all. It was only that this was the most alive he’d been in forever, and it was baffling. He was _alive_.

There was more than just that. The day was atrocious, the hell Draco put himself through not forgotten, but now that Potter was here it all sort of… melted away. Draco could smile and actually mean it. And he did, a lot, too much. But he didn’t mull it over obsessively, because Potter was there to pull him out of his thoughts again, and things were so much easier when he was around. The night carried on softly, uncommonly quiet, and by the end of it Draco convinced himself that he could probably bear the morrow, too. Wishful thinking was something, wasn’t it? They went to bed rather early, both exhausted from their respective days, and Draco brushed his hand against Potter for good-night. Potter's fond smile was enough to rip his soul to bits, but also enabled him to fall asleep without having to count his breaths all the way to two-thousand.

***

The second day was bad, but not quite as bad as the first. The third day slightly better again. By the fourth Draco was able to tell himself he was accustomed to this new situation, and if that was a lie, he didn’t question it too closely. Bearing the time apart from Potter actually became sort of necessary – Draco needed it to remind himself to _fucking stop already_ with his mad hallucinations that this… thing between them could ever mean more than it did right now. And so he spent Thursday in a relatively mild manner, reading in the library, as this was what he did now. He went through the days either hiding in Potter’s bedroom and hating himself, or on the sofa in the library, hating himself with a book. It passed the time, anyway. And was far better than thinking about Him, or about Potter, whose inherent sweetness was becoming a real problem. Hating himself – though not as vehemently as he should have been, surely – was at least familiar. And so the day went by with the least amount of friction.

The sound of Floo-flames kicking up ripped him out of his brooding. “Draco?” he heard the call, and inadvertently smiled.

“In here!” he returned a half-shout. Potter came in a little timidly, spotted Draco on the sofa, and gave a palpable heave of relief.

“Hey! Whatcha doing?” he sank next to him and eyed the book lying open on the coffee table. “Yuck, what’s that?”

“It’s an antidote,” Draco hoped his voice was even enough to sound scolding. “You know, those neat little things that help you not die from poison?”

“Yeah, but why’s there blood in it?” Potter’s brow furrowed, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Because some poisons are very specific to the maker, and so to – never mind, it’s too long and you’ll fall asleep halfway through my explanation. Let’s just skip it. How was your day?”

“Yeah, alright,” Potter mumbled noncommittally. He gave him a concerned look. “You? How are you?”

Draco struggled for a second. “I’m – yes. And you?”

“Bad day, huh?” Potter asked softly, and Draco snorted.

“Incredibly astute, Potter. Is that why they made you an Auror?”

The worried expression did not lessen, but Potter’s lips moved in a beginning of a smirk. “Among other reasons. So… You want to tell me what’s up?”

“Not in particular. Forget about me, Potter – tell me all about your no doubt mindless, foolhardy adventures.” Draco was far snarkier now that Potter spent long periods of time away. It was the only way not to completely, completely ruin himself by fawning all over him.

“Oh, er, yeah, it was fine. Didn’t really get much more information from the suspects we apprehended yesterday, so that was all a big fuss for nothing. What about your day, though? What did you do?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about me,” Draco said a little coldly, and Potter nodded.

“Right, yes, sorry. I just wanted to… never mind. I actually have a – well, there’s something I need to ask you about.”

“Oh?” tension coiled in his gut like a snake. Potter looked terribly unhappy, so it couldn’t have been anything good.

“Yeah, just something that came up today. Do you happen to know if – “ he took a deep breath, and now Draco was _really_ worried – “I don’t suppose you own your flat? As in, it wouldn’t be under your name, right?”

That was unexpected, and Draco frowned. He had to take a moment to adjust to this conversation topic. “Er, no, of course not. Can’t really use a dead man’s name to buy property – and besides it’s not _my_ flat, it was always His. I think He lived there before… before He met me.”

“Right, that’s what I figured. So – do you know if your ex actually owns it?”

Draco’s frown deepened. Did He own the flat? That was a silly question. For all he knew, He owned everything in the world. “I have no idea. I assume He does, but… why?”

“Huh. It’s just – when I asked Ron to observe the building for us, he went to check who owned each of the flats, just for surveillance purposes. He’s submitted a request to the Muggle authorities for the information ages ago, but the last of it only just arrived today. It’s been a little tricky to find out all the details, stupid bureaucracy, but in the end the report said that… apparently, the man who owns your flat is someone called F. Macnair.”

Draco needed a second to digest this information. “What?”

“Yeah, threw me off too. F. Macnair.”

“F. Macnair, like Fergus Macnair? As in, supposed to have been dead for decades Fergus Macnair?”

“That’s one way to read into it, yeah.” Potter still seemed miserable, and it only now dawned on Draco where he was really getting at.

“If you’re trying to ask me if my – if the man I was with is a long-dead but actually only fairly-recently-deceased Death Eater, then the answer is no. _He’s_ not F. Macnair. _He’s_ not bloody dead.”

Potter smacked his lips. “No, of course he isn’t.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, but for a second it sounded like you might have been suggesting He is.”

“I wasn’t suggesting... that, exactly.”

Draco felt the heat in his cheeks rise. “What are you suggesting, then?”

“I’m not – you have to admit it’s weird, Draco. Why would your ex live in a place owned by a dead Death Eater?”

He sighed in annoyance. “So now there’s only one F. Macnair in this whole entire world, I presume? There couldn’t be someone else with that name, from whom He rented the place?”

“Yes, well, but he’s not even been renting it. There are no contracts or anything whatsoever suggesting anyone’s even lived there in the last ten years. Don’t you think it’s a bit odd, that he simply doesn’t exist in the flat on record? Why would he be hiding?”

“Um, hello?” Draco’s tone was getting a touch hysterical. “Runaways from wizarding law? I _killed_ a man, and He was there to help me – “ then he shut his big, traitorous mouth, and Potter gasped.

“Helped you what? He helped you cover it up? Pretend you were dead?”

“Forget about it, I’m not telling you anything more. Apparently you’ve not quite given up the idea of investigating _me_.”

There was very clear frustration on Potter’s face, and it was a little scary to see, but Draco didn’t let up his scowl. “I’m not investigating you, I swear I’m not. It’s just a little… the whole thing is kind of seedy. Macnair popping up twice, and he’s only been killed recently… With what you’ve told me about him, and with everything else – “

“You naturally assumed He must have been involved in any and every bad thing that’s ever happened. Sure. That’s the only reasonable conclusion, anyway.”

“Draco, come on. That’s not what I said. I just asked if – “

“You just asked if the man who saved me from a terrible death is a murderer, or at least a notorious Death Eater. Fucking great. I can assure you He’s not. Last time I checked His arm, He wasn’t marked.”

“He’s not got the mark?”

The tone of surprise was what brought Draco shooting right off the edge. “Fuck you, Potter, no, He doesn’t! What, do you think that only a Death Eater could ever be with me, is that it? That no one who isn’t a psychopath could want me?”

Potter grimaced. “Obviously not. I don’t think I’m a psychopath, and I want to be with you.”

Draco faltered a little at that. But the heat did not suddenly disappear. “Just because someone isn’t a fucking Gryffindor – “

“Oh, so the man who invaded your mind against your will wasn’t a Gryffindor? Color me surprised.”

That was a bit distracting, because to be honest, Draco had no idea if He was a Gryffindor or not. True that His whole essence screamed Slytherin, but Draco didn’t actually know. Did He even go to Hogwarts? It didn’t matter. “There are more than just two types of people in this world. Everyone isn’t only a Perfect-Goody-Good-Gryffindor,” he gestured towards Potter, “or an evil-bloody-bastard-Slytherin,” he pointed at himself. “It’s not all so black or white.”

Potter shook his head. “Never said it was. I know people aren’t two-dimensional.”

“Do you? because it sure looks like you don’t. You jumping to conclusions whenever something doesn’t sit right in your righteous little chest is petty and downright childish. _He_ might have done some things you wouldn't approve of, but He’s not a monster. At least He understood me.”

“And I don’t?” Potter spat.

“Of course you don’t. How could you? In your eyes I’m just the little shit I used to be. The evil, horrid, no-good little fucker I was.”

Potter gasped. “That's not true – “

Draco wasn’t exactly sure if it was or not, but he carried on regardless. “It’s not even a surprise, you know. How could I ever live up to the standards of the fucking Savior? How could I ever be good enough when you’d always ever think of me as nothing but _this_? A worthless, nasty little prick?” 

“Am I really so bad to you?” Potter asked in a tight voice. “That I make you feel like that?”

Now he had to pause. “You’re not bad to me. You’re never bad. You’re bloody perfect.”

“Draco, please stop. Answer me honestly, I’m begging you. Do you really think that I – do I make you feel worthless?”

The hurt in Potter’s voice made him shake his head before he even thought about it. “No. It’s not – it’s not you. I didn’t mean that.”

Potter took a moment to recover. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. What you’re doing right now. Trying to hurt me. Trying to make me angry.”

Two grey eyes opened up in indignation. “I’m not trying to make you angry. I didn’t say that to hurt you.” And he didn’t, he thought. Why would he? It made no sense.

Potter rubbed his chin with not a small amount of desperation. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not _doing_ anything.”

“You are. You've been doing it all week. Or maybe not exactly like this, but - it's like you're... you’re trying to push me away or something. Are you testing me? Seeing what buttons you can push before I blow up? It’s not going to happen. So you can just _stop_ doing that.”

Draco was confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve not done anything.”

“You’ve not – for goodness’ sake, Draco, would you quit lying? At least to yourself? It’s exhausting just to see. And whatever it is you’re trying to prove –“

“I’m not proving a damn thing!” Draco found himself yelling, but he almost didn’t care. “I have no idea what it is that you want from me!”

“I want you to be honest with yourself, that’s all.” Potter’s hiss ran under his skin.

“I am, and I have no clue what you’re on about! I’m not testing you. I’m not trying to annoy you. I’m not trying _anything_.”

“You’re still a terrible liar, Draco. You’re pushing and pushing because you think that at some point I’m going to just up and leave. I won’t, Draco. I won’t leave, no matter how angry I get. You don’t need to do this.”

Potter’s condescension was infuriating. “You think you’re so fucking good – Harry Potter and the Incurable Desire to Help Everyone – even Saint Potter will get fed up at some point, and you know it just as well as I do!”

“So it is what you’re trying, then? You want to see how fast I get tired of you?”

“It didn’t take very long, it would seem, if that’s what I was doing! Ten minutes and you’re already flying off the handle!”

“I’m not flying off the – Draco, please. Please just look at me.” But Draco wouldn’t, couldn’t stand his sight. He fixed his stare on Potter’s boots and refused to look up. “I’m not angry with you. I was a little surprised, and it did hurt when you said those things, but I’m not angry. And even if I was, I’m never going to get tired of you. I will never desert you, I promise. I promise.”

“I don’t _believe_ you,” Draco’s tone somehow rose, although he felt smaller than a knut. His hands were shaky fists at his side. “I don’t believe you.”

Potter was still trying to calm himself down, if his labored breathing was anything to judge by, and Draco waited and stared at his boots. Somehow they both ended up on their feet, and he didn’t remember when it happened. With the way he was shaking, there was no chance he’d be able to remain standing for long.

“I’m sorry,” Potter whispered out of nowhere, and breathing became impossible because his voice was so, so hurt. “Draco, I’m sorry. I – I did this all wrong. I shouldn’t have… I should be more patient, I know that. It's hard, and I do get angry sometimes, I won't try to pretend I don't. But no matter what happens, no matter how mad I am, I will never just leave. I know it’s hard for you to believe me now, but I hope you know I do mean it, and maybe – maybe one day you will be able to believe it too.” He bent his head down and took some deep breaths, and Draco’s chest was on fire, and everything was wrong. He wanted to reach out to him, to take everything he said back, but he knew he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry too,” he said instead, and Potter nodded. He still didn’t look at him.

“I’m going to – I’m going upstairs to change, all right? Then we can make dinner. I was thinking maybe stew.”

Draco opened his mouth to say yes, anything, but Potter was already gone, and he was left alone in the library with the heaviest feeling in the world. It became their new tradition, cooking together, and Draco came to see these hours they spent in the kitchen at night as the best in his day. In his life, probably. And to think of their sacred time together, ruined – to think of Potter up there now, probably replaying the terrible things Draco said so carelessly, _hurt_ – to think that he caused it – he simply couldn’t take it. Without even contemplating it for one second he dashed upstairs, a yelp caught in his throat he could in no way release. All that mattered now was getting to Potter, telling him he didn’t mean it, any of it. Saying how much he meant to him… Draco burst through the door not thinking at all about what he’d find inside. What he saw was not the first thing he’d have guessed, although if he was even a tiny bit clever, he should have known.

Potter stood by his bed, shirtless, gaping at the unexpected intrusion.

At first Draco did a natural, unavoidable double-take. Then he took a step back, also very expectedly. What was extremely _un_ expected was him then stepping forward into the room and closing the door behind him, leaning on it a little heavily. Potter stared at him, confused and wide-eyed.

“What…?”

Draco had no idea how to even begin answering that, so he shrugged. Seeing Potter’s bare chest was conflicting. On the one hand, every single one of his brain cells screamed, and it made concentrating on anything a little challenging. On the other hand, that chest was connected to Potter’s face, _his Potter_. That chest – with its dark, thick hair that continued in a line down to his navel, then down to the top of his trousers – that chest was _Potter’s_ chest, and that meant there was nothing to really panic about, because _Potter wouldn’t hurt him_. Not on purpose.

“Draco?”

He looked back up at his face. “Potter, can I – “ then stopped, bit his lip and shook his head. Come on. This shouldn’t be so damn difficult. Not everything always had to be so difficult.

The line of hair looked so soft against the hard, toned muscles of his chest and abdomen. Draco’s eyes followed it without intention, entranced. Potter was mesmerizing. There was a small burn on the center of his chest, hardly visible but for being slightly raised. His skin was dark and smooth-looking, and Draco had the notion that if he ran his tongue over it, it would taste like caramel. These thoughts were _insane_ , but now he could somehow hear them too. They lived right there beside his dread. Beside his destructive fear. _Never wishing to be touched, longing to be held_. It was impossible, and Potter’s chest – rising and falling very quickly now – made his fingers itch. He wanted to touch it. _He wanted to run away_. He wanted to get closer. _He wanted to stop existing_. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he thought he might know what he needed.

“Can I see?”

“See what?” Potter asked, startled.

“You,” Draco answered plainly. He tried to lift his hand to point, but it shook too bad and he dropped it. “Can I… can I see you?”

“What do you mean?” Potter’s voice was a warm summer’s breeze, a light touch. Draco drew courage from it.

“I want to see you. Your body. If – if you want to show me.”

“But why?”

Draco pondered the question for a long moment. “I think I need it. I need to – I want to trust you. I… I want to see you.” He let his eyes wander down to Potter’s abs. It was so different than looking at His body, pale and long, muscular yet narrow. Potter was broad. Potter was dark. Potter looked strong. Draco needed to see. “I – please, Harry.” 

For a second Draco thought he must have made a mistake, and instead of pleading he actually slapped Potter right across the face; he sure looked like it, jaw hanging open in shock. But there were at least six feet between them and Draco's hand was still flat against his side. He didn’t even know why he called him that all of a sudden. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, only that it was necessary. “What – what?”

Draco swallowed an impossible amount of saliva. “Please, Harry. I want to… I want to do this. Please let me see you.”

“Just – just see?” Potter asked in a measured tone, and Draco nodded. “Do you really mean it?”

“Please.”

“Is this… Draco, is this an apology? Because you don’t need to do that. I’m not angry with you. And even if I was, I’d never – “

“No, Potter.” The green eyes narrowed, and Draco knew right away what he did wrong. “Harry. It’s not an apology. I don’t – I am sorry, that was what I came here to tell you, but it’s got nothing to do with that. I never thought I will – I didn’t expect myself to – but I want to, Harry, I do. I think I need to see you so I can know for sure. I need to – I need to know.”

“Know what?”

“Harry, please.”

He broke; with a tiny, miserable nod he closed his eyes. “All right. I – if it’s really what you want.”

“It is.”

Potter – _Harry?_ was he really doing that now? – nodded again. “So what do you… what do you want me to -?”

“If you could take your – trousers – off – “ Draco’s mouth had a real hard time formulating the words, and it took about a full minute to finish the sentence. Potter looked downright depressed as his fingers undid his buttons, but then Draco couldn’t really see his expression anymore, because he was staring at his knee caps. They were knobby and kind of adorable. For a long time he wasn’t even distracted by the boxers – blue and white tartan – because he just couldn’t take his eyes off them. Knobby knees. That didn’t even seem like a flaw in Potter’s perfect, strong legs. Then Draco found his gaze naturally gravitating upwards – Potter’s thick, athletic thighs, lightly covered with hair, the edges of his boxer shorts… he tried to swallow, but now his mouth was very dry.

“Do you want me to – as well?” Potter asked somewhere in the distance, and his fingers grabbed the material of his boxers. Draco nodded, or tried to, he didn’t really know if he was making any movement at all. This was… complicated. He knew it’s what he needs, and was fairly certain it’s what he wanted too, but it didn’t make it any less complicated. Even a compartmentalizing genius like himself could appreciate the difficulty in this situation. “Draco, we don’t need to. We can stop here.”

“No – go on, Harry.” Where he found the strength in himself to say that, Draco had no idea. His whole body felt weak, and he leaned against the door almost like he hoped it would swallow him. Perhaps he did in some ways. But he also wanted this, to be here, to see this. To know. Because he really, really needed to know.

Potter’s hands played with the waistband of his boxers for a second. Draco stared at the motion, mesmerized. “Are you sure that – “

“Yes. I’m sure. Please.” 

Then they were off and Draco had to take a lot of air in before he could really look.

Draco didn’t _love_ the way a cock looked. He didn’t _love_ how it made him feel, which was an array of emotions so conflicted and so painful he didn’t even know how to approach them. He didn’t _love_ the physical reaction it created in him, making him hotter, flustered, nervous. He knew, of course, that a cock could be a very good thing if used right. He knew that. But knowing and _knowing_ were two separate things, and even His cock wasn’t – all that – there were issues there, too. But Draco got used to His cock in the end, and he could get used to the sight of Potter’s. He even liked His cock sometimes. Occasionally he really liked it. But even liking it was problematic, because it made him _sick_ , and – it was complicated. It was all very complicated. So Draco took another deep breath.

The only thing was, on his way to look at Potter’s cock, he caught a glimpse of his eyes. And yes, the cock wasn’t – it wasn’t exactly easy to stare right at it, long and a bit on the thin side, probably half-hard. It wasn’t simple. But the green eyes reminded him it was _Potter_ he was looking at, and the nervous glint in them reminded him that _Potter wouldn’t hurt him_. Just look at what he was willing to do for him. Draco knew from experience that standing naked in front of a fully-dressed man was about as vulnerable as you could get, and Potter agreed to do that for him. Harry. Harry agreed to do that for him.

 _Harry_ looked like he was about to move, and Draco sent a hand forward in alarm. “Don’t – please don’t come any closer.” He nodded, and now Draco couldn’t take his eyes off his face, desperate to read it. What was Harry thinking? Was there danger here? But there was none that he could detect; Harry’s face was soft, warm and soft, like a meadow of green-green grass sparkling in the sunlight, and Draco could breathe. “You won’t hurt me,” he said, a little surprised to hear it coming out loud.

“I won’t hurt you,” Harry hummed in agreement. His voice was smooth and sunny too. Draco exhaled heavily.

“You won’t hurt me.” His heart beat a wild tattoo against his shirt. 

“I won’t hurt you.”

Draco took a step forward, a little unsteady on his feet, and although he seemed like he might, Harry didn’t move to catch him. He stood very, very still, and Draco looked at him, all of him. His smooth skin, soft-looking despite his rigid frame. The way his hip bones stuck out, making a very distinct line to his crotch. The light dusting of hair on his stomach. His nipples, brown nubs on his muscular chest. His wide neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. This was all his Potter, his Harry. This was it.

“You won’t touch me,” Draco said, and there was a mighty amount of hesitation in his voice. There was none in Harry’s when he responded.

“I won’t touch you.”

“You won’t?” he raised his eyes to meet the green, and Potter – damn, that’s going to be a rough transition. _Harry_ – smiled at him, natural, bright.

“I won’t touch you.”

Draco swallowed hard. Then again. And again. No, there was absolutely no way not to say it. “Unless I want you to.”

Harry laughed and his smile brightened even more. “Unless you want me to.”

It felt like releasing a hundred-ton bag he’s been carrying around for ages; Draco visibly deflated, sighing in relief, unable to express it in words but he was sure Harry understood. Harry wouldn’t hurt him. Harry wouldn’t touch him. He saw it now, he saw _all_ of him, and now he knew. There were no more secrets Harry kept from him, no more hidden threats and daunting whispers. This was it _all_ , and this was _it._ It was Harry, not even Potter, Harry who was so much more vulnerable and that much more bare and who let him do this, let him see this, only to reassure him. This was Harry, and he wasn't scary. All this time Draco still had that irrational fear, or perhaps not so irrational, for it was very much history-based. But he didn't need to have this fear anymore, not of Harry, because he knew Harry all the way now, and Harry wouldn't hurt him. Not even Harry's body. Not on purpose.

“Can I put my clothes on now?” Harry asked jokingly, and it resonated somewhere very specific in Draco, who could only nod.

“Yes, sorry. I – “ he let him dress before carrying on. When his trousers were buttoned and T-shirt in place, he tried again. “I really am sorry for before. What I said was – “

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry smiled and shook his head. “Draco, I never thought for a moment this was going to be easy. But we’re… we’re making some progress, aren’t we?”

Draco looked at the white button-up discarded on the floor. _He saw now, saw it all. He knew now._ “Yes, I’d say we made some tremendous fucking progress.”

“Then that’s all that matters to me. I hope you – I hope you got what you needed from that?” There was doubt in his eyes now, and Draco forced himself to breathe hard enough to be able to speak. He'd already given himself up so many times, he'd already abandoned any trace of self-preservation, but maybe it wasn't such a bad thing.

“Yes. It was… thank you. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’d do anything for you. You know that.”

_Fuck._

“Arsehole.”

“Prat.”

Draco didn’t think his heart could take a second more of this.

***

The thing Harry kept fearing, his ‘something big’, happened that night, or more accurately in the wee hours of the morning; twelve Death Eaters escaped Azkaban in the second-largest mass breakout ever to be reported. Among the escapees, all of them familiar to Draco, was one he knew particularly well. It would seem that Lucius Malfoy did not, in fact, die in prison. And not only that he didn’t die, but as of Friday morning, he was also on the loose.


	22. Everything is Too Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!  
> So - I'm sorry, I know this update took a little longer. I'm somewhat disappointed with myself for not keeping to the self-imposed (and honestly-rather-mad) schedule, but on the other hand - who did I think I was, some sort of Wonder Woman? Pfft.  
> A moment of truth - this is getting really hard, you guys. The closer we get to the end, the more difficult it becomes. (Remind me one day to tell you how many drafts of this chapter I have saved in my folder. Purely as a trivia fact, it's hilarious). But we're still going strong, moving ahead, and we will see this through! Yes. This story will be finished, so help me... who do I turn to again? can't be Merlin, can it? Well, I'll go think about that, you can go read the chapter. 
> 
> Also, let me apologize in advance if the next one takes a little while as well. I know exactly what I want for it, but I have a feeling it might take a few attempts to get it just right. Hopefully by the time you reach the end of this (long, dramatic, *long*) chapter you'd forget all about it and won't be angry with me! 
> 
> _Anyway_ sorry, thank you, love you, all of that. ^^

There was a storm that night, because of course there was. Would former Death Eaters even bother escaping Azkaban without the most theatrical weather in the backdrop? A flair for the dramatic was a must for a Dark Lord follower. Thunder growled ominously outside the window and rain pelted the glass, loud and insistent. It was four in the morning, and there was absolutely no chance of sleep. Draco was consumed with visions of Harry out there in the torrential downpour, too small against the elements, even the great Harry Potter not enough. Will he keep to his word, will he stay safe? Will he remember he can’t fucking do magic now, or will he die doing something stupidly heroic? Every time lightning flashed Draco winced, and it wasn’t just because he hated the fucking weather.

He did, though. Hate it. He hated many things right about now – ox-shaped Patronuses that glow in the middle of the night and deep manly baritones barking information and casual mentions of names he hadn’t heard out loud in years. He hated the cold seeping from the window, the weak, eerie orange glow filtering through the curtains, the inaudible ticking of the clock making no progress at all. He hated that Harry had to go. He just wanted him back in his now-vacant bed, a few feet away, impossibly warm and annoyingly soft. Draco wanted him back, because he had this startling feeling that everything might have irrevocably changed, and the room – the bleak, wrong, Harryless room – offered no comfort at all. Once his safe haven in this creepy old house, it began to feel a little like a prison.

But that was a wrong choice of words, because _prison_ was precisely what he couldn’t be thinking of. Draco tried to distract himself, to draw some consolation from the sheets Harry bought for him, the mattress he transfigured, but he could not calm down. Tossing and turning under the duvet he tried to control his breathing. Waking up in the middle of the night to hear those names thrown so offhandedly was bad enough, but among them… among them was…

Something he was certainly _not_ going to think about. Ha, did you really think he will fall for that? No chance. Draco breathed through his teeth and let anger flood him, grounding, necessary anger. His heart had better stop racing like that, he was no fucking cheetah. His hands had better unclench from their fists, and those little beads of dread had better stop building in his stomach. Nothing happened, and there was no reason for his body to act up like it did. So he heard his father’s name, so what? So Harry’s commander seemed to think he was alive. It meant nothing. It changed nothing. It – it was nothing. Draco didn’t have to think about it, he was reprieved, and no one was going to force him to, because he was safe here. Right? he was safe. The only threat was the one within his own head.

His head, the bastard who never played fair. Why was it never on his side? (Oh, right. It’s because he was a piece of shit who didn’t deserve it. His bad.) Thoughts ran through it so fast, Draco had no chance of catching any one of them long enough for a proper examination. He could only read their headlines: _dread! Worry! Disgust! Grief!_ and really, it didn’t mean all that much to him. Somehow the world kept shrinking ever smaller, smaller than the confines of the room, the length of the mattress, the outlines of his body, the livid mess of his head. Smaller and smaller… soon there won’t be space for anything in it. Draco tried to fight this feeling, but he was so weak on his own, and he was so very much alone. It was just him here, him with his sickening worry for Harry, the groaning and stretching iron curtain, and the ice-cold thought of his father.

What? No! not the thought of his father, because his father was _dead_. Didn’t they say he died? Maybe not; Draco knew he suppressed these memories so hard there was every chance they were distorted. It didn’t matter – he didn’t need to think of his father now, he got reprieved. Didn’t He agree, didn’t He give Draco His express permission? And so if Lucius really were alive, it didn’t make any difference, because Draco didn’t need to deal with it. He didn’t. He wouldn’t, either, he blatantly refused. He wouldn't.

Harry tried to coax him into it, sitting on his mattress at three in the morning, asking repeatedly if he was sure. Because he didn’t have to go, he said. He could stay here. He sat there and looked him deep in the eye and said _Draco_ in that worried tone of voice with his eyes all flashing sympathy and it was _fucking wretched_. Draco wanted to cry the whole time. And then when he flinched away from his reaching hand, like a total prick – as if hand-holding wasn’t something they did all the time now, as if he was scared Harry would _hurt_ him – the fucking gall. Draco was horrified with himself. It was just that after he saw so much of him that night, Draco didn’t think he’d be able to touch him. It was how all this knowing and _knowing_ worked, and how being so sure there was nothing to fear did not at all mean he wasn’t afraid. He was terrified. And so Harry left, he left, and Draco was alone. Alone and he needed to get a handle on his scorching, burning mind. Didn’t he owe Harry to at least _try?_

Harry, Harry, Harry who didn’t want him to fall. Harry who wanted him (because remember that, Draco?) and cared for him and who was a fucking wanker of the first class, and such a kind, kind heart. Harry, in whose eyes he was alive…

So Draco did the only reasonable thing there was to do and got up from his bed, misgivings put aside, and all but dove into Harry’s. His duvet was thick and smelled like the lemony shampoo he used as body wash, and Draco inhaled it like a man dying of suffocation. He was, in a sense. Being deprived of Harry’s presence felt like suffocating, and it bade such terrible, terrible things for the future. Because if a few hours away from him at night were almost unbearable –

But this was another subject Draco was not going to go into ( _The Future_ ) and he focused on Harry’s scent instead. He will not think of his father. He won’t do this to himself. So what if for years he thought the man had died, _hoped_ he did die, it didn’t matter. In or out of Azkaban, it wasn’t like Lucius was going to take any part in Draco’s life. He was just as dead to him now as he always was, which was mostly a relief. When he died, the memories of that night died with him. Because Draco got reprieved and exempted from ever thinking of it again. True that they kept the can in the cupboard for – for – he didn’t know exactly what for, but He’d agreed. And yes, Draco had no self-preservation anymore since he gave it all up for Harry, but it didn’t mean he had to rip himself open and bludgeon himself to death. He was in control now, not the thoughts, not Azkaban. Not Grove. Sadly, not Harry. Thankfully not Him. No, it was all up to Draco now, and he had to bloody pull it together. He can do that, can’t he? He’s done it before. It’s not like this little thing can topple the very precarious balance he had in his mind. It’s not like he’s been walking a flaming tightrope for weeks. It’s not like any little disturbance was enough to send him crashing down – spiraling – nope. It wasn’t like that at all.

Draco was such an idiot; these thoughts obviously escaped through the holes in the curtain, and instead of escorting them back in, he let them roam free. He _engaged_ with them, like a self-destructive maniac, like the masochist he was. And really it was the trend here he needed to worry about, as soon as he’d be able to worry about anything other than Harry. The very upsetting trend of how these holes were getting ever larger, frighteningly large. Constantly the curtain creaked and threatened to fall, and Draco could already see what was forming behind the gaps, which scared him to no end. It was only a matter of time, he knew, any day now it would collapse. And what will happen then, hmm? If the curtain goes, Draco goes down with it. There was no other option. It was his only, most vital tool of survival, and damn it, Draco wanted to live. He did, he did, he did. He wanted to live, and in order to do so he needed a healthy dose of denial. It was all that kept him from losing his mind – the only thing that enabled him to be with Harry, to be Harry’s all this time. Purely denial, perhaps with the help of compartmentalizing and a splash of pretending. Because underneath all of it there still lay the heart of the matter – Him, and Draco acted like he forgot, but he really didn’t. He couldn’t. Some marks will never wash away.

Oh, good gods, not this. Calm down, he begged his raving mind. Please, calm down. For Harry, do it for Harry. He believes you’re a person, a real person, and you can at least pretend to be one for him. Because… because Harry wanted him. So badly that he was willing to show him, too, all the way. And before he left, when he reached for him, and Draco flinched – when Harry sat on his mattress like a fucking _angel_ , and he _flinched_ , because he was a _son of a bitch_ – he will apologize for that later. Harry didn’t deserve that from him, Draco’s done enough damage. He still beat himself over Harry’s hurt look earlier that night, before the whole… naked situation. There was so much to make amends for. He hurt Harry too many times to count, viciously, systematically, even if not always deliberately. He’d been – hell, he’d been lying to him all this time. While Harry did what, care for him? Try so hard to keep him happy, to keep him safe, to keep him warm? And Draco gave him nothing but lies and deceit?

All right, easy now, breathe. In and out, just like you’ve practiced a million times. It’s not so difficult, not everything always had to be difficult. _In, out_. Just like that. And relax. He’d be punished for it, everything he’s doing, all of his sins. He’d be properly, heavily punished, so there was no point killing himself over it right now. He had to think about Harry, his salvation, his light.

Harry wants him to be okay. Harry thinks he deserves to be okay, which was pretty much bonkers, but wouldn’t it only be fair to try? If up until now Draco repaid his kindness by nothing but cruelty and indifference, can he not strive to be better? Can he not invest all of his lying, cheating, garbage self in this effort, to give Harry _something?_ He owed him so much. It all gathered, a ton-weighing ball chained to his ankle, and Draco was struggling to move as it was. So he tried. He counted his breaths and tried. Not thinking of the pain he caused the only person who saw him, not thinking of his father, the first man he ever loved, not thinking of Him, the man to whom he really owed his allegiance. Nothing. He counted his breaths and tried to think of nothing.

Thinking of nothing never worked, though, did it? He couldn’t think of nothing. So he thought of little things instead, keeping on the very surface of his boiling mind. The smell of spices from a tub of Indian food. Sitting in a bakery watching the bustling street. Laughing at one of Kreacher’s snide whispers. And he knew he was hurting himself with all of this, he could feel it pool up somewhere deep in his abdomen, but it was also the only thing that brought even a tiny bit of calm, and Draco needed to be calm. He would not let himself break, not now. For Harry. He breathed in and out, and got to three thousand and fifty, but he probably cheated. Time continued passing in an infuriating snail-like pace. Draco maybe wasn’t so keen on dying anymore, but living sure had its drawbacks.

At some point the room filled with light. The storm must have cleared, and it meant nothing at all, as Draco was far beyond registering it. Then the light got brighter and brighter, but his chest was still frozen and barren. Then it got so bright it burned his eyes, and still he couldn’t really relate to it, because _Harry wasn’t here_ and he needed to be sure he was safe. Moments stretched differently in the light, a honeyed torment that was hot rather than cold, and it meant nothing. He was so empty. Draco breathed and breathed, but there never seemed to be enough oxygen in his lungs.

And then, thank Merlin and all the gods combined, and he really didn’t know how he deserved it, but Harry returned. Instantly Draco got filled with too many things, and it was bewildering and painful and wonderful in a very frightening way. In the beginning Draco was too caught up in his frantic relief to realize why Harry looked so confused.

“Draco. You’re… in my bed.”

“Oh,” he bolted into sitting, aghast. His heart still beat rather wildly with giddy joy. His Harry came back to him. “Erm, right. Sorry. Let me just – “

“No, no, don’t be silly. Are you okay? You look exhausted. Didn’t get any sleep?”

“Not much.” Draco studied his face; pale, stubbly, red around the eyes. “You look exhausted too. Rough night?”

“You can’t imagine. It’s been… do you want me to tell you?” The fact Harry even thought to ask added another half a ton to the shackles weighing him down.

Draco gulped. “I think I’d rather that you didn’t.”

Harry nodded, and there was such gentleness in that gesture, it made his chest burn. “All right. I’ll just hop in the shower, then I could – I dunno, go sleep somewhere else or something.”

“Oh no, I don’t want to inconvenience you, I can go back to – “

“Nah, no reason to get you up, you seem comfortable. You can stay there… I mean, if you want to. I could just go to the guestroom and – “

“No!” Draco didn’t mean to shout, the word flew out of him without his control. “Sorry. I mean, of course you can sleep wherever you like. But you shouldn’t have to… you should just sleep here. In your own bed.”

Harry squinted his eyes, a little too tired to catch on quickly. “But you’re in my bed.”

“Yes.” Draco tried to swallow the words, but they came out anyway. “And you could… be in it, too.” It sounded crazy, went against his every instinct, but the thought of Harry in another room made him want to vomit. Even having him a few feet away on Draco’s mattress would be too far. Draco needed him here, his own personal savior, or he wouldn’t be able to breathe right. When Harry looked shocked, he thought perhaps he could do a slightly better job explaining it. “Erm, we could do it without touching. Just – just sleeping. If… you think that would be okay.”

Harry took a longer moment to consider it than Draco would have expected, but then his bewilderment broke into a little smile. “Sure. If that’s really what you want – “ Draco nodded vehemently, and the smile grew wider – “then of course.” He went to the bathroom, leaving Draco to first marvel at own his audacity, then to stew in his infuriating stupidity. What did he think he was doing? What on earth was he playing at? Sleeping on the same bed had so many – implications – that he could never face. Being that close to Harry would be potentially devastating. If he wanted to touch him… Draco couldn’t even bring himself to think about that. So what the hell was he thinking?

But then Harry came back and there wasn’t much room for dread anymore, because he looked his softest yet in those fluffy pajamas. (Draco had three pairs just like that now. Gods, he would give anything if he could only keep them). The bed was wide enough to allow some space between them, but Draco could feel his warmth instantly, and it made his heart melt just a little.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked, and Draco wasn’t able to answer straightaway.

“Yes,” he mumbled in the end, a little choked. Harry’s body weighted the mattress and angled it a little towards him, and Draco was baffled by how much he wanted to crawl underneath him and hide there forever. He didn’t, though. He didn’t think he’d be able to touch him anytime soon. “Yes, it’s… it’s perfect.”

“So now we sleep?”

Draco nodded, although he didn’t really want to close his eyes. “Now we sleep.”

And as odd as it may sound, with the hellish night he’d been through, with the news still buzzing in some corner of his mind, with the little nuggets of fear in his belly and with the weight around his ankles dragging him down – Draco really did sleep.

***

He woke up a few hours later, and the first thing he noticed was that Harry was still awake. Draco turned to him, puzzled and a little worried. It was beyond extremely weird to be lying in the same bed, but he fought through that. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Go back to sleep.” His voice was so, so soft, it made Draco’s stomach drop to his knees.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he whispered back. Harry gave him a contemplating grin.

“I didn’t want to… never mind, it’s all right. You should sleep.”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“What is it?” Draco sucked in a sigh. He was in physical pain with how gently Harry looked at him right now.

“I didn’t want to accidentally touch you or something,” he explained with an apologetic shrug. “I move a lot in my sleep, and you’ve had such a night already, I didn’t want to… it’s all right, though. I’m not as tired as I was before. I’m happy just lying here.”

Draco took in all the air in the world, still it wasn’t enough. “So you’re just – staying awake? So that you wouldn’t touch me?” Harry shrugged again, and Draco sighed, too frustrated to even… here was Harry, _hurting himself_ for Draco, and it was on a whole new level of too much. He couldn’t let this happen. His fucking light in this grim, grim world, and Draco lets him just torment himself so that _he_ can sleep, like a selfish arse? Wordlessly he slipped out of bed.

“Wait, don’t – “

“It’s all right, I’ve actually slept enough. Now you can sleep and… and you don’t need to worry about anything.”

Harry shook his head. “I want to be close to you.”

It hurt, gods be damned, it hurt so much. “I won’t be far.” He took the chair and dragged it till he could sit next to him. “See? I’m right here. Now sleep.”

“Draco, no, I don’t want you to – “

“Harry, please. I’m fine. Sleep.” And he was _fine_ , absolutely fine. Everything was just fine. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not like his heart was crushed to fucking paste and everything hurt. His head did _not_ feel like it was going to explode. His eyes did _not_ sting with unshed tears and his mouth did _not_ form a silent scream and – you know what? This was getting a little repetitive. Let’s just say he was all right, and everything was fine in that stupid noggin of his. Harry’s casual selflessness did not at all make him want to hurt himself. Thinking he won’t have it in The Future did not make him wonder if he’d be better off dead already.

Harry was exhausted, and it didn’t take much longer before his objections gave in to the deep breathing of sleep. Draco sat there and watched him, feeling the misery ebb inside him, bubbling too close to the surface. He was stupid, but not a fool. Despite being the sweetest sort of pain in existence, Draco knew beyond a doubt it was very nearly enough to undo him. The ton and a half around his ankles doubled and tripled, and soon he won’t be able to move at all.

***

It took about twenty minutes of combined explaining, scolding, name-calling and good old-fashioned begging to make Harry agree to go to Weasley and Granger’s for their usual Saturday dinner that night. “It would only look suspicious if you don’t go. They’re expecting you. You don’t have to stay there long, just have the damn dinner and come back. I will be _fine_ , I promise.”

“I just don’t think that – “

“Harry, please.”

In the end it came down to the fact Harry was not yet immune to Draco’s begging, and he consented. “I’ll not even be gone an hour.”

“Just have the dinner, Harry. Don’t be a git.”

“But I don’t – “

“ _Harry!”_

“Yeah, yeah, all right.” He rubbed his nose and stared at Draco, obviously displeased. “But I have my phone, and I swear to god, if something happens and you don’t call me – “

Draco shook his head. “When has that ever happened? It’ll all be okay. Go.” It took about five more minutes, but in the end he really did go. Draco sat himself down in the library a little stiffly and picked up the potions book he left there. Right. He will read a little, then make himself dinner (because he promised Harry, and he’d disappointed him enough for a lifetime, he reckoned) and by the time he’d be done with all that, Harry would be back. Solid plan. Very good. His fingers had some trouble flipping the pages till he got to where he was last, and with a sigh he dove in.

_For some of these poisons, the only possible antidote would be in the very essence of the maker himself. Predominantly blood is used, but examples have been shown throughout history where wizards used hair, saliva, and even semen of the original castor to counter-act the poison. The most famous example is perhaps that of the Scarab king of –_

Draco’s eyelids were heavy and droopy. With a great yawn he realized he hadn’t actually slept all that much. He shook his head and batted his eyes a few times fast. Soon Harry would be back, and they would go to sleep together. It was better that way. Safer. Just keep reading, Draco. He skipped the story – had a feeling he’d already read it before.

 _Where in other cases, a wholly different array of symptoms is possible. While most poisons are deadly, some can cause only partial failure – for example, Veneartus_ _is well known for eliminating the use of one’s limbs, or Lingeum which is famous for making those who consume it lose their mother tongue. The effects can be long lasting, and perhaps even permanent -_

His eyes were stinging now, as Draco found he had to rub them every few seconds to keep them open. This really was rather interesting, but he was just so tired. Draco gave his whole body a mighty shake and tried again. The words sort of swam before his eyes, which wasn’t a good sign.

_Of course, some potions need to be re-taken every so often in order to preserve their strength, in particular those which use a living source. Much like Polyjuice, which must be consumed hourly, other potions that take their magical properties from the wizard himself need to be taken on a regular basis – daily, monthly, or even yearly, depending on their strength._

It took rereading this paragraph three times before Draco realized he skipped two pages that were stuck together. He tried to sigh again, but it turned into a massive yawn. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a second – it’s not like he’s actually going to fall asleep, he’d never be able to –

Then he jumped nearly to his feet when something clanged noisily. Dazed and terrified he looked around – had he fallen asleep? How much time had passed? And _where the hell_ was his vial of Polyjuice? Another noise, a crash, a mumbled curse – a familiar tone – _Harry?_

Draco rushed to the sitting room to find the man sprawled on the floor, the new security guard face down by his foot. He blinked at him for a moment, too confused to think properly. Did he really fall asleep? That seemed impossible, but the sleepy fog in his head and his sore neck told him it might have actually been a while. Huh. Draco didn’t think he’d have the courage to actually sleep. Perhaps he was just that tired, or _that_ out of whack. He blinked a couple times more as Harry didn’t seem to be getting up.

“You okay?” he asked a little harshly. Harry looked up at him, desolation etched all over his face.

“Yeah, sorry. I just – had a rough landing.”

Draco _wanted_ to offer a hand, but he still couldn’t handle the thought of touching him. “Are you planning on staying there much longer?”

“What? Oh, er, no, not really.” Harry heaved himself upwards with a grunt. “Are you alright? You look tired.”

“Do I? I just woke up. Apparently I fell asleep in the library.”

“Really?” Did Draco imagine, or was Harry’s mouth twitching? “That’s – neat.” He took a step closer, and his breath made Draco cough heavily.

“You’re drunk!” he accused, stunned.

“No,” Harry shook his head fast, maybe too fast – he seemed a little dizzy. “No, not drunk. Just had a few drinks with Ron. He wouldn’t – wouldn’t let me go without – oh, fuck.” His leg caught the rug, and he looked like he was about to fall again, but righted himself. “I’m not drunk, though.”

“Sure,” Draco snarled. He could smell the Firewhiskey from here. It brought back memories which were _supposed_ to be tightly contained, but probably slipped through the holes in the curtain. Harry took another step towards him, and Draco had no choice but to take one back. “What – what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Harry blurted, his face flushed.

“You’re drunk,” Draco repeated with disdain. He didn’t like this one bit. Not that he thought Harry would hurt him like they have, those whiskey-stained memories, but still. He didn’t like it.

“No, I’m not. I swear, Draco, I’m not drunk. I just – we had a talk, you know, about… relationships, that kind of thing. You know how Hermione and Ron are planning their wedding. And it just made me think – it made me think about you. How much I care about you. And how you’re so – “ he took another step forward, and Draco was too astounded by the words to move, so he ended up quite close. The smell of alcohol was even stronger now. “I just want to be near you. Like, all the time.”

“Harry,” Draco warned when his arms started to move. Obediently he lowered them, and Draco remembered to walk away now. He took a calculated step back. “Please, I don’t want to do this when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Harry groaned, miserable, shaking his head. “Wait a second. Let me – “ he pulled his wand and tried to cast a Soberiatus, but his magic was still so weak, the spell didn’t do much.

“Why don’t I make you a coffee?” Draco asked, just as miserable. He longed for Harry to be there, wished for it with all of his heart, but this was not what he wanted. He didn’t want to be scared. He didn’t want to think Harry’s presence could make him _more_ scared. “Here, just take a seat. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Harry didn’t even like coffee, but he must have liked Draco well enough, because he nodded and sat down. Draco’s hands shook terribly as he boiled the kettle, and the sugar might have ended on the counter rather than in the cup, but he took it back to the sitting room nevertheless and placed it in front of the sofa. “Drink,” he ordered without meaning to, and Harry complied, downing the whole thing in about two sips. His anguish had a physical presence in the air between them. “Is that how you drank the whiskey?” Draco asked, eyebrows drawn.

“No, I really didn’t drink that much. I’m – I’m sorry, Draco. I didn’t want to… I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” he lied easily, because not hurting Harry was pretty much all he wanted to do in this life. “It’s all right.” They sat in silence for a few minutes – well, Harry sat, Draco remained standing and at a distance. “So you had a… good night?”

“I guess,” Harry shrugged. “It’s always good to see them.”

“Good,” Draco said dumbly. He had no idea what else he could say.

“I just wish you could have gone too,” Harry mumbled absently, and Draco couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“They’re not my friends, Harry. They’re yours. They’d probably hex me upon sight, even if they didn’t think I’m an Inferius.”

“I don’t know about that. It’s – things have changed, you know. Not everything stayed like it was right after the war. We all… hell, we all grew up, Draco.” He looked up now, and there was still far too much pain on his face. Draco couldn’t stand it, so he forced his legs forward and sat down at the very edge of the seat, as far as it allowed. “Oh, you’re – hey.”

“Hey,” Draco answered, a little timid. The sofa wasn’t that large, and Harry was close. He smelled like coffee and whiskey and warmth and confusion. “Do you – do you want another coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m really not that drunk, I swear.”

“I believe you,” he spluttered, although he didn’t know if he did. It didn’t matter. Harry could say he’s a caterpillar hiking through a windy moor and Draco would say aye.

“Listen, if you ever did want to – “

“Harry, please. We don’t have to talk about this now. I – it’s been a long day. Please.”

He nodded. There was an awkward silence for a moment, highly uncomfortable. “So you fell asleep in the library? Was quite tired, I’d imagine.”

“I suppose,” Draco said, not training his eyes off the man in case he makes a sudden move. “I didn’t eat, though. Please don’t be mad, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Why would I be mad?” Harry’s brows furrowed, and Draco was reminded yet again why he was the best man in the world. The ball chained to his ankle grew a ton heavier. “Are you hungry? Do you want to eat?”

“I’m okay,” he shook his head. Could not take anything more from him, ever, ever again. He was already weighed so far down. “You had a decent enough meal? Weasley outdid himself yet again?”

Harry chuckled, and the soft sound was soothing to Draco’s frayed nerves. “Thankfully it was Hermione’s turn. She made lasagna, very tasty. I actually brought some back for you, because I thought you might like it.”

“Oh? Where did you put it?” Harry pointed at the rug, and Draco saw a little tub peaking from under a crease in it. He couldn’t help a smirk, though his insides were squirming with unease. “Ah. Lost in the mighty battle of the sitting room. Oh well, thanks for the thought.”

Harry laughed, warm and distracting. “I’m sure we can rescue it if we joined forces. The rug is a mighty foe, but it’s got nothing on us. With you by my side, I can do anything.”

Draco frowned. The words were meant to make him feel better, but they didn’t. “You could do anything on your own, too,” he said somehow. Harry shrugged.

“Wouldn’t be as much fun. Everything’s better with you.”

Something lodged in Draco’s throat and just would not let up.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about you all of last night.”

“You – have?” that damned thing only let Draco’s voice out as a tiny whisper.

“Yeah, I have. I just… I wondered if I’d be able to do it.”

“Do what?” Draco couldn’t look at his eyes, because the look they gave him burned, and instead he busied himself watching Harry’s hands drawing circles on the sofa between them.

“If I did find Lucius, would I be able to take him in. Throw him back in Azkaban after… after everything you’ve told me, with everything I know now. I don’t know if I’d be able to do that.”

“But you hate him,” shock made Draco raise his glance, and he regretted it instantly. Harry’s face was torn and he could feel it all the way in his chest.

“I don’t, not really,” he shrugged. “Not anymore. It’s been so long, and besides – I can’t hate anyone that you love. I can’t… I don’t know if I could hurt anyone that you love.”

“You – you’d lose your job,” Draco stuttered, too awed to understand anything. He was fixed to the spot by heavy, heavy chains, and wherever it was that his mind went, water started filling up.

“I doubt I would, Golden Boy and all,” Harry rolled his eyes but still looked pained. “But yeah, I guess if it came to that… I don’t know, that’s all I’m saying. I just don’t know.”

The water came down fast, and now it was all the way up to his chest and still kept rising. This was out of line – he could not bear it anymore; Harry was his salvation, his everything, he’d already given him so much, done so much for Draco. Him even considering it – considering not hating Lucius on his account – it was too much, and the fuckload of tons weighing Draco down would be the death of him. He had to give something back – he had to, _had to_ , but what? What could he possibly give, what did he possibly have? Draco had nothing. Whatever was left of him, Harry already had. What could he give him now?

“His name was Grove,” he found himself saying without realizing he was going to do it. Harry’s face opened up to him in shock. “Alan, the man I killed. The guard who – his last name was Grove.” There was a long, heavy moment of silence between them.

“Why are you telling me this?” Harry’s voice trembled when he finally said something. Draco gave him a stern look. Doesn’t he know?

“Because I… because I trust you.”

“You do?” Harry’s green orbs were filled with so many contrasting emotions, they were hard to read. There was pain there, to be sure, and traces of bewilderment, and _just a little_ _bit_ of whiskey perhaps – but also tenderness, such tenderness that made Draco gasp.

“I do.”

“I – thank you,” Harry seemed to struggle to find the words, and Draco could understand that. He gave him a tiny smile. “Draco, thank you so much.”

“No, Harry. I should be thanking you.” And because he didn’t know how to say it, he scooched a little closer to Harry’s maddeningly-warm body on the sofa. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to – Draco, what are you doing?”

Draco shrugged. Being that near sent barbed panic down his throat, but there was no other way to show his appreciation, and Draco had to give something. fifty-thousand tons weighed him down and he needed to give Harry everything. He had no idea what he was going to say when he croaked, “Harry, I –“

“Draco…” his voice was heavy and thick, and Draco closed his eyes when the hand rose, because he wasn’t brave enough to look. He could feel it coming all the way up to his face, and barbed panic became boiling anxiety, and it was too much. He didn’t want – he couldn’t possibly – but he owed him _so much_. There was nothing really to do, but still, the slashing dread made his mouth open in some sort of plea –

“Harry,” he tried weakly, but his words were drowned in the warm lips and all thoughts sizzled to ashes in his mind. Harry’s breath was whiskey, but his tongue when it slicked into Draco’s gaping mouth was coffee, and the mixture was baffling. There was nothing he could do but let it. So he stayed where he was, immobile, hands frozen in his lap, his tongue floating in the open space of who-knows-whose mouth, and now there was no stopping the tears.

Then – inexplicably, unbelievably, unforgivably – Draco found himself pulling back, and he could not explain it rationally for the world. It just – it wasn’t right, it wasn’t the way things were meant to go, and in some place inside him he knew that. Still, what he did was utter madness, sheer psychosis – and now that Harry’s face was inches away from his own, but not on it, he was seized by the fear. _He was not meant to defy_. He wasn’t even meant to be able to consider it. Confusion made him open his eyes, and what he saw was enough to send him right into the depth of hysteria. The way Harry looked at him – so much shock, so much hurt and anger on his face, it was all Draco could do not to wail. Unable to move any more, it was Harry who took himself back and created some distance between them, mumbling inaudibly. He waited with his breath held, but Harry got up and took a few steps away from the sofa, still with that terrible look on his face.

Time must have frozen still, and Draco kept waiting, but nothing happened. Where was his punishment? He pulled back, actively _refused_ , and he was supposed to pay heavily for that. Where was the hand slapping him across the face or shoving his head down? Where was the wand raised in front of his eyes or the cruel words shot at him? None of it happened. Nothing happened.

And nothing kept happening. It was highly unlikely and honestly just bizarre, but Draco was not grabbed by the hair or forced to his knees. He wasn’t kicked into a slobbering mess. He wasn’t attacked with the most vile of mentions. What the fuck _was_ going to happen to him, then? He finally crossed the line, he finally went and did it, and _how was he going to pay?_ Shit, how terrible must it be if Harry wouldn’t even look at him now? How fucking bad did he do this time?

“Draco, I’m so…” Harry seemed to find his voice, but not the words, and fear wasn’t even close to describing the emotion ravaging Draco’s insides. “I can’t even… I don’t know what to say. Do you – do you think that – fuck, I’m just so… And after I tried so hard, I can't believe...” he shook his head, and Draco was only an inch away from falling to his knees and begging the daylight out of him, but he didn’t think it would help. It never did when he was about to be punished, and this – Harry’s first punishment – he wasn’t brave enough to try. “I'm just so - I don't - urgh. Do you… do you think you’d want to sleep in the guestroom tonight?”

Fuck. Draco should have seen it coming, but… just _fuck._ He hoped his voice was measured as he spoke, feigning nonchalance and probably failing miserably: “Is that all?”

“All what?” Harry still stared at his shoes like he hoped they would do the talking for him, but Draco was impatient with dread.

“Will that be all of my punishment?”

“What?” Harry looked stricken. “Your – no, of course not. It’s nothing like that.”

Draco turned his deadened eyes to the rug. “So what will it be?”

“There won’t be a – what are you talking about? Why would I punish you?”

“B-because I – “ it didn’t _feel_ like the way it did in Azkaban, or with Him, they way they had him repeat his sins before he could be absolved of them. Harry had his own methods though, he supposed. “I should never have – I’m so sorry, Harry. Please. I didn’t mean to do it. It was... instinct. I'm sorry.”

“You think I’m… you think I’m angry you pulled back?” he didn’t trust his voice not to break, so Draco just nodded. He missed whatever it was that changed on Harry’s face, because he could not muster enough courage to look up at it. “Draco, I’m not angry with you. Not even close. I’m angry with myself.”

“Please, Harry.” Draco didn’t understand what he meant by that remark. He was the one who did wrong, not Harry. He was the one they were angry with.

“No, it’s true. I’m so mad at myself. I never should have lost control like that, I should know better by now. I tried so hard this morning, but I - you were so close, and I'm so tired, and I just lost it. I’m not… you did nothing wrong, Draco. You did so good. I’m so proud of you.”

“You… what?” Now he just lost the plot. The words breached through the haze in his consciousness somehow, and Draco’s eyes sought the green ones in confusion. He did not understand the mixture of emotions swirling in them.

“I’m so proud of you, I’ve never been more proud. I had this worry still that in the moment of truth you won’t really be able to… not that you needed to prove anything to me, but it was amazing to see regardless. I’m just – I saw how upset you were, and I touched you without even asking, and I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to punish you when I asked if you wanted to sleep in the guestroom. I just thought – I know it can’t be easy here, in a house that isn’t yours – in _my_ house, you know, under _my_ roof, and you never get any space from me. I thought maybe you wanted, needed some. I wanted you to have the option. And I suppose that… maybe in some way I thought I deserved to feel the pain, because that was such a screw-up, Draco, I can't believe I just did that. But I’m never going to _punish_ you. That’s not how this works between us.”

Fuck squared. Draco understood very little of this confuddled speech, but what he did get made zero sense. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

“I do. I really do. I’m never going to – I don’t ever want to hurt you, Draco. Ever. It’s the last thing I want to do. And I can’t tell you how proud I am of you for standing your ground, I’m beyond happy about that.”

Draco gaped at him for a moment, completely out of his element. There were many things about this Harry-fantasy that he’d accepted, forced himself to accept really, but sins that went unpunished? He drew the line at that. There was no chance in hell this could ever be real, not in this world, not in his world. Whatever elaborate scheme, whatever joke he was playing, Draco was not going to take part in it.

“Stop it.” He sent out a warning glare, but Harry’s stupid face really did look pleased.

“I’m serious. I’m so happy to know that you can stand for yourself. That you aren’t too – scared of me – I can’t tell you what it means to me. Honest. It was my biggest fear, and to see that you’ve… I’m so relieved.”

“Stop. It.” Draco gritted his teeth. He had water all the way up to his ears now. Harry looked nonplussed.

“But I mean it – “

“For crying out loud, Harry, just stop. Please. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Take what?”

Draco pulled his own hair in frustration. “This. You. I can’t… just stop, please.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop being so fucking _understanding_.” Harry’s confusion morphed into a hesitant grin, but Draco wasn’t kidding. “Being so _kind_. Acting like you _care_.”

“But I do care!”

Draco shook his head, but his annoyance was quickly dying down into pure misery. He was suffocating, and the chains kept him down under the increasing pressure of the water wherever it was he was locked up. He will cave, and the curtain will fall, and he will die. He didn’t want to die. “Please.”

“Draco – “

“Merlin - please, Harry. I can’t stand it. I know I’m… I know I’ve been… but even I can’t take it. Please, it’s too much.”

“I don’t understand.” Harry’s voice was so damn tender. “Please help me understand what I’m doing wrong. Please, Draco.”

“Fucking – this, what you’re doing right now!” he pointed needlessly at Harry’s flushed face. “Stop being so good! I can’t take it, Harry! You can hurt me in many ways, but this is just too much! Please, I’m begging, _please_ stop!”

“But how – why is this hurting you?”

“Because you will _leave_ ,” Draco whispered and buried his face in both hands. “Once you know. You will leave. I know you think you can handle anything, but you will leave, and I –“

“Know what?” Harry stopped him, and Draco shrugged.

“Me. Once you really know how messed up – once you know what I – you will leave, and I will have nothing, nothing but Him. You can’t – you can’t show me all of this, push it right in front of my nose and expect me to – while I know, I know all along it can’t continue. That it will have to end, and you will be gone, and I will be – please, Harry. Please. I’m not strong enough. I don’t… I can take much, but not this. Please. It’s too cruel.”

Draco’s shoulders moved up and down in dizzying speed. What had he just confessed to? He was far too frazzled to care. It took a long while before the silence compelled him to look, and then he really wished he hadn’t; the sight that met his eyes made him stumble. Harry was on his knees in the middle of the room, both hands on his chest, and the look he gave Draco was scorching with passionate sincerity.

“I know that… I know it may be hard for you to believe me, I do, and I understand that. I just fucked up colossally and – and I swore I’d never hurt you, and there I just went and did it. I’m so sorry, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” His choked tone went up an octave, and Draco could hardly even breathe. “I’m so sorry I did that. I know it’s no excuse, but… I’m not perfect, Draco. I can’t be, I’m only human. I get why you wouldn’t trust me, but I promise you, I promise, I will always try my hardest. Always. And no matter what happens, I’d never leave. Never. Even if – there’s nothing that can make me go, okay? I’m so, so sorry. Maybe I don’t deserve it, but still, I - please don’t push me away because of this. Please. It kills me that I hurt you, that I was careless, but I swear, I never want to hurt you again. I – I love you, Draco.”

Oh, gods.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. This could not be happening to him. Could _not_ be happening. Draco did many bad things in his life, yes, that was true. He was a piece of shit and a son of a bitch and he deserved any fucking bad thing that existed, but this? _This_? He didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this.

He _loves_ him _?_

Love was the thing that hurt Draco the most. He loved his father, didn’t he? He loved him, and that’s why it hurt so fucking bad, everything that happened in Azkaban. He loved his mother, and it very nearly killed him, having to stay away from her. He loved Pansy, which was why his heart broke into so many pieces when she was in danger. And he loved Him, he loved Him with his whole heart, and _look where it fucking got him_. Draco’s love for Him was probably the most painful, at least physically speaking. It _tore_ him apart. And now Harry – wanting to – saying he was – no, no, he won’t let him. He can’t let him. He will not take the one thing Draco had and ruin it like that. He will not –

But fuck, it wasn’t even about that at all. Harry thought he _loved_ him, he thought he _knew_ him, but he didn’t really. Harry didn’t know the first thing about him, the most crucial thing of all. He didn’t know where Draco’s heart still lay. He didn’t know Draco was not his own to give. He didn’t know shit about what was happening inside him, constantly, ruthlessly ripping him to shreds. He didn’t know, and he fucking needed to, because this was too bloody much. Water filled every crevice and slit in him, the shackles tore his skin, the iron curtain was crumbling and everything was _killing_ him, he was _dying_ , and he needed – he needed – what the hell did he need?

Oh, gods. He really screwed everything up, hasn’t he? He screwed everything up. All this time, all these months… _lying_ to Harry, fucking with his mind, and look what it did to him. Draco had so many opportunities to push him away, to make sure he leaves, keeps away from danger. And what did he do in each one of these opportunities? He pulled him ever closer, because Draco was selfish. Because he needed someone, and he didn’t care who he might hurt.

_Selfish. Evil. Whore._

_Love_ him? Harry didn’t love him. Harry couldn’t love him. Draco was an eggshell of a man, a cracked and useless pile of rubbish, and fucking hell, even he did not deserve this. He couldn’t, he couldn’t handle this, he couldn’t take this much… he couldn’t…

“Draco? Will you, er, say something?”

Harry’s voice was uncertain and small now, and it hurt even more, because _fucking shit_. Draco let him get this far, he let him fall far enough down the rabbit hole, until he thought he fucking _loved_ him, and that was just unbearable. How could Draco do this to him? How could he betray him like this, day after day, spinning his web of lies and tricking him into it? How could he be so fucking selfish? He was leading him on, and he knew it. Draco has been lying for months, and Harry had no clue, and it wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. He knew what he needed to do, what he should have done ages ago, just not how to do it.

How can he tell him, when it means losing him forever?

He had no _choice_. No, that was wrong; he had a choice, and he’s been making the wrong one, for weeks now. He should have been honest, and instead he went ahead and hurt Harry, when he really should have chosen hurting himself. He deserved it, Harry didn’t. Harry deserved the world. He deserved _everything_. And Draco couldn’t give him everything, not really, but at least he can fucking be honest with him. He must tell him the truth.

He can’t tell him the truth. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated with himself, frustrated with Harry. “You don’t love me.”

“Of course I do. I love you so much. I didn't exactly mean to tell you right now, or like this, but… I’m sure you’ve already figured it out, Draco. I’m crazy about you.”

“You’re crazy all right,” Draco muttered under his breath. Then, louder: “Harry, you don’t love me. You don’t… you don’t even know me.”

“But – but I do,” he insisted, and Draco shook his head. “What _?”_

He must have been referring to the scowl on Draco’s face. “You can’t love me,” he said, and his anger (anger? Again with the anger? Where the hell does it keep coming from?) multiplied, heating him up from the inside. It wasn’t a pleasant heat, though. It could burn him.

“Of course I can, I can and I do. And – you know what? I think you love me too. Maybe you won’t say it, but I think you do.”

Words failed him for a moment. “You what?” then he regrouped. “I don’t love you. I can’t love you.”

“Why’s that? Because you don’t know me either?” Harry’s voice was bitter and cold, and Draco had to tell himself twice it’s just his disappointment, because _Harry wouldn’t hurt him on purpose_.

“No, I – I can’t love anyone. I’m not… not whole enough to love – “

“Bullshit. Draco, that’s total bullshit, and you know it. You obviously loved your ex, and I think you love me too. You’re just too much of a coward to say it.”

It didn’t even hurt, he’s been called much worse, and the pain of the curtain falling down was far more demanding. “Harry, please listen to me.”

“Why for? So you could continue lying to the both of us? You’d need to face it at some point. I’m not saying it has to be now, but – “

“Harry. Please.” he huffed, but silenced, and Draco found he really didn’t know what to say. His head was on fire, underwater, some fucking how, and this was far beyond dangerous. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know yet. There are – things – complications. I can’t ever really… I can’t love anyone, not fully. I’ve given you what I can, but I… I can’t give anymore. I can’t give you my heart.”

“Why not?”

“Because – “

“Because what?”

He needed to make him understand. “Because I’m broken, Harry. I can’t.”

“Draco,” Harry’s voice went soft, and he couldn’t stand against him anymore, “you’re… I know it’s difficult, okay? I’m sorry if I sprung that out on you, I don’t know where my head is today. But you’re not broken, and it’s your decision what to do with your heart. Sometimes we believe something because it’s easier, and I don’t know if that’s the case here, but I don’t want you to give up on all of this just because you’re scared. It’s true that I don’t know a lot about what’s happened to you, but don’t say that I don’t know you. I do.”

“You don’t.”

“Erm, I do.”

“Harry, you don’t.”

“I’ve known you since – “

“It doesn’t matter since when you knew me, I’m not that person anymore!” Draco was so frustrated, because couldn’t he _see?_ “There’s – it’s not only what happened that you don’t know. You don’t even know who I am. You think I’m some – some – I don’t know, damsel in distress or an abandoned little puppy, but I’m not an innocent man. I killed – I tortured – I’m a bad person, Harry. I’m evil.”

“You’re not evil,” Harry laughed, and his confidence in that shattered Draco’s control.

Harry needed to understand. He should know what Draco did to him, he should know everything. He should despise him the way he deserved to be despised, hurt him like he should have been hurt a long, long time ago. Draco was being selfish all along, he was choosing himself, and that was always wrong. Harry was so much better than him. “You have no idea – “

“Draco, come on, you’re not evil. The things you’ve done under Voldemort were – yes, they were bad, but it’s not like you had much choice in all of that. And the man you killed, well – “

Fuck, _fuck_ , it was unbearable. Harry thought he could _love_ him. Harry thought he deserved it, his trust and affection, and Draco didn’t, not ever. He had to know. He had a right to know. And if he hates him for it – _when_ he hates him for it – Draco will have no one to blame but himself.

“It’s not even just that. It’s not like it’s all so far in the past – I’ve… you have no idea, Harry. You don’t even know what I’ve done to _you!”_

“What have you done to me?” Harry wrinkled his nose in confusion. Draco had to work himself up a little before he could bring himself to say anything more, but he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t keep fooling Harry, not anymore.

“I LIED to you!” Draco cried, somehow finding himself on his feet. It was either shouting it or never saying it at all, and he had no fucking choice, because Harry was perfect, and he deserved it. Even if it kills Draco.

“What? When?” Harry was standing in front of him, and everything was so much more difficult.

“I lied to you, Harry. I lied – I may have put you in danger – and I should have told you, but I didn’t, I couldn’t. Can’t you see what’s been going on all this time?”

“No. What has been going on?” his tone was measured and careful, and Draco wanted to cry.

“It’s not – “

“It’s your ex, isn’t it? He’s got something to do with it?”

Draco gaped. “No, it’s – it’s – “

“Quit it, Draco. You said you were lying to me. Will you just be honest?”

“I can’t -”

“No, you can, you just don’t want to. Have I not been honest with you? Do I not deserve a modicum of truth?”

“Please, Harry," he couldn’t stand it anymore. Of course Harry deserved it, this was the whole point, he deserved everything, but he just didn’t think he can do this particular part – he will give him all, but to give away Him –

“No, Draco. Don’t give me that look, just tell me. What’s been going on? Why can’t you say you love me?”

“It’s not that I can’t _say_ it, I can’t – “

“Draco, just tell me what the hell is – “

“I can’t, because I don’t belong to me!”

The silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and anxious. Harry stood only a few steps away, so painfully familiar and with that miserable look on his face, and it was far too much to take. “What do you mean?”

Everything broke inside his head, mayhem of flames and suffocation and dark, dark depth, and he knew he was doomed. There was no avoiding this anymore, he couldn’t lie to him. He couldn’t, not even to protect himself from Him. Whatever it meant, whatever he was giving up on now, it didn’t matter. He may lose his life over this, and the screams in his head were deafening, but Draco had to focus. He could fall apart later. Right now he owed Harry an explanation. He gathered all the strength still in him and tried his fucking hardest.

“I was never my own, Harry. That’s why I can’t give you – that’s why I can’t love anyone else. I’d always be His. I’m sorry.”

“Be his? What does that mean? He left, didn’t he?”

Draco tried a deep breath. Thoughts and memories still buzzed everywhere in his head, roaring flames wreaking havoc all around, but he had to push it all aside for as long as possible. “Not… not really. He left, but He’s coming back, and I’ll – I’ll go back to Him. I really am sorry.”

“Coming back?”

Draco was so, so miserable. He couldn’t do it. He had to do it. “The only reason He left to begin with was you.”

“Me?” The tiniest nod was all he could give in reply. “Why did he leave because of me?”

“When Grove died,” Draco began, certain he could never finish without bursting into actual flames, “when I _killed_ him, He was there to help me. I don’t really know how He did it – covered up the whole thing, I have no idea what He did with the body. Then He took me into hiding. He – He saved me, Harry. But in order to do so He had to break the law. So when you came along, an Auror who knew me – “

“He left so I wouldn’t catch him?” Harry asked in a very quiet voice, and even nodding was difficult now.

“And He – He said I needed to… He wanted me to talk to you. About Azkaban. To tell you what happened, to… gain… your trust…”

“While all this time…” Harry buried his face in his hands, and not seeing the pain in his eyes made it easier in a way, and harder in another.

“We never really broke up. I don’t know where He went, what He’s doing now, but He was never actually my ex. I don’t – it was so hard, being alone, having to… relive all those memories… you were there, and you were so perfect, so understanding – so bloody good – and I couldn’t… I couldn’t resist you.”

“But you were still with him.” Harry’s voice was hard and cold like steel. “All this time you were with me – you were still with him.”

“In a – yes. I – I suppose… I was.”

“Have you been in contact, or -?”

“No,” Draco shook his head desperately. “No, not since the day He left. And that was before… before you came back. I’m sorry, Harry.”

“You’re _sorry?”_ he raised his head now, and Draco decided he definitely preferred when he couldn’t see the green eyes. _“Sorry?”_

“So sorry.” How could he make him see? Harry would never understand he had no choice. The screams inside his head made it nearly impossible to hear what he was saying.

“Right. You’re sorry. All this time you were in love with somebody else, but you’re sorry, so I guess that cuts it. Why did he say you had to talk to me about Azkaban, though? What was the point of that?”

Draco tried to think, but it was so hard. “So you’d leave. He thought if I satisfied your curiosity, you’d leave.”

“You did tell me to go,” Harry said in a startling, bitter laugh. “Again and again, didn’t you? You told me to leave. Threatened me, even, if I recall correctly.”

“I didn’t want to – I didn’t want to hurt you. Please, Harry, I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Well, that’s just a lie. You spent many years of your life wanting nothing better than to hurt me. I guess you finally got your wish.”

Draco was too stunned to reply for a moment, but the silence wasn’t very quiet with the constant exploding in his head. “This is not – I didn’t do this to get back at you, I swear. I care about you so much, Harry. You’re – you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the best person in the world.”

“Just not that bright, though, am I?” he asked in a wicked, humorless smile. “You as much as told me you’re still in love with him. And I – fuck, all this time you were just trying to _gain my trust?”_

“No,” Draco hurried to say, “no, that was just the beginning – before He… before I really knew… please, Harry.”

“Will you quit giving me the puppy-dog eyes, Draco? I thought we agreed you weren’t one. I just don’t… I don’t understand. I thought – all this time I thought you really… why did you let me touch you?”

“Because I wanted to,” Draco breathed, looking down. Everything hurt. “Only because I wanted to.”

“Or maybe all of that was a lie too? Maybe what you told me about Azkaban didn’t really happen like that? You were just trying to manipulate me into something?”

He deserved that, but it was still painful to hear the accusation. “No, it’s – I didn’t lie about that.”

“Right. You only lied about your boyfriend, your crimes against wizarding law, the way you felt about me – “

“I never lied about that either,” Draco found himself begging the carpet. “Harry, I never lied about how… I never lied about that.”

“And I’m meant to – what, believe you?” he scoffed, which was a fair point.

Draco had to try and make him understand, however impossible it may seem, however hard it was to form a coherent thought. “There were certain… elements… which were out of my hands. There are things I can’t control – “

“Enough with that bullshit, Draco. You’re the only one in charge of your life. So all along you were just trying to get me off your boyfriend’s scent? Consider your job done. I won’t go after him, all right? I thought I made it clear before, I wasn’t going to chase anything to do with that man you killed, but here. I won’t go looking for your boyfriend. You’re free to go.”

“Harry…” he tried to put everything into that one word. Everything he didn’t say, everything he couldn’t say. How could he explain to this man, the master of free will, that it was honestly out of his hands? He had no choice in the matter. If He beckons, Draco must follow, and that’s the way it works. How could he tell him how much he cares? How much Harry had already changed his life? How much he taught him, showed him, let him have – let him feel – how grateful he is, always will be, until he dies? How could he tell him all of that, when he knows in his heart of hearts that he will have to leave?

“Just go, Draco.” Harry wouldn’t look at him. He had his head in his hands and he wouldn’t look at him. Even beyond the fumes and yells in his head, Draco knew this would be the last time he saw him, and it would end just like this; with Harry angry, disappointed, hurt, and all because of him. All because Draco was such a fucking piece of shit. “Nothing’s tying you here.”

“Harry – “

“Please.”

It wasn’t fair; here Draco was, trying to put an entire world in a word, and Harry could just do it, so easily, so naturally. There was no fighting the sadness in that one single word, wide enough to engulf him all. Draco nodded and turned to leave.

“You could – you could never really love me?”

“I’m sorry.” The way Harry’s voice broke resonated in his hollow chest and broke everything in the way. “I’m so sorry.” And he left.

***

The screams in his mind did not stop as he came out of the house. If anything, they increased in volume, but it was hard to measure because everything was just _fucking chaos_. Draco was done for. Harry cast him aside, like he always knew he will, and now he was alone with this inferno in his head. He was alone, and everything was over. Draco shivered in his jumper. His jumper Harry bought for him. Harry, whom he destroyed. And now it was time for him to be destroyed in return.

Fuck, it was long overdue. He thought of his father’s face that night, of his mother’s grief, of Pansy’s life in danger, of His disappointment, of the hurt in Harry’s eyes. He hurt them all, no matter what he did, how much he tried. His mere presence, the fact he existed, was enough to hurt them. Anything he did, anything he could ever do… he could bring them nothing but pain. The iron curtain he’d been keeping up for months now had shattered, and Draco was left defenseless on the street, but it hardly mattered. He didn’t need protection from anything. He was dying, anyway. Gods, he didn’t want to die.

But he probably didn’t deserve to live.

Draco stared at the empty street and saw nothing. Questions zoomed in his head and he didn’t understand any of them. His list of sins weighed heavily on his chest, and the shackles made him drag his feet. He was burning and drowning at the same time, and the pain of the collapsing curtain was unimaginable. Memories… memories he couldn’t ever face… everything flooded his consciousness, and how could something keep burning for so long and not perish? It hurt so bad, but he deserved this. He deserved this. Painful thoughts, all those memories swam before his eyes, too quick to follow; all he could catch were cold blue eyes, burning red eyes, deep brown eyes, hurt green eyes.

It was over. It was over. It was over. It was all over.

Then a voice spoke, close enough to register in his crumbling mind, and Draco looked up to a face he recognized. Rosier. What was he doing here? Was this Draco’s mind finally giving up, and the memories took up for reality?

“Welcome back, little Malfoy,” the man cackled and held out a hand to stop him. “And just in time, too. I received word from your master.”

“What…?” a soda can was shoved in front of his eyes. It didn’t feel like a memory, didn’t ring any bells. Hallucination, maybe? Was it happening inside or outside his burning head?

“Portus. Ah, perfect. Put your hand on the can, boy. He wants to see you.”

Draco was far too broken and stunned to do anything but obey. The portkey glimmered and shook, and an uncomfortable moment later they were in a flat that looked recognizable, yet wasn’t the one Draco expected to see. It wasn’t His. Must have really been a hallucination. What –

“Oh, Draco,” he heard the voice though, the familiar, _familiar_ voice, and his insides froze and melted at the same time. Not an illusion. This was real, it had to be real. A hand grabbed the back of his neck, a _real_ hand, a _familiar_ hand, and that was it for him.

The face he could only see in his dreams for so long appeared before his eyes. “My Draco. How I missed you.”

He was finally going to get what he deserved.


End file.
